


Le Morte D'Savior

by BelovedCreation, MryddinWilt



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedCreation/pseuds/BelovedCreation, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MryddinWilt/pseuds/MryddinWilt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Savior becomes the Dark One, her family must do the saving. They set off on a quest to find Merlin and the ancient origins of the curse in order to free Emma from the hold of Darkness. (Not based on any spoilers. This Season 5 speculation fic was conceived and written before any set pictures or interviews.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaborative, speculation fic. Odd chapters are written by BelovedCreation and even chapters by MryddinWilt

It’s like floating in a pool or in the ocean, this weightlessness, this sense of vulnerability. Emma Swan has no control over the bands of darkness that wrap around her limbs like the firm but kind hands of a lover.

She had thought the darkness would be cold. Instead it’s pleasantly warm, as though she were being cocooned in something cozy, protected from the outside world—even though she knows, deep inside, that the very thing she needs protection from is working its way into her body. The darkness seeps into her pores, makes her nerves spark with excitement; it makes her bones twist, her muscles relax and contract, her blood flow faster, boiling and excited.

Emma Swan  _is_ the darkness.

And yet, she is not.

She looks at her family for as long as she can, stares at her parents and at her—at her  _Killian_ for as long as the darkness will allow her. She wants to memorize everything about them, remember how it feels to love them like this, to love them as a hero. Because whatever this darkness does to her, things are about to change. What she feels now—the security of her parents and the fumbling caring with Killian—there is no telling how the darkness will pervert it, make her love into something as sinister as the magic lifting her up into the air.

In cartoons, to demonstrate when it was really fucking hot, little thermometers would fill with red liquid until they exploded out the top. Emma has never identified with scribbles on a page more. The heat pounding in her body is vividly red and she isn’t sure she will be able to stand it much longer before she shoots out into a million pieces, bits of the Savior littering Main Street.

 _That_ would give Regina something else to complain about.

She finds a quiet center inside herself, a cool river near her heart, and waits until right before the exploding point, channeling her light magic so that when it comes, when the darkness finishes its elaborate hazing, she can send herself somewhere else, so she can spend her first few minutes as the Dark One without risking her loved ones’ lives.

Emma’s like a lead balloon—her fall is fast and it hurts like hell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When she wakes, the weightlessness is gone and her world consists of the mud under her clenched fingers and the dampness of wet grass seeping into her jeans at the knees. Earth, glorious earth, and she’s never been so glad to feel so disgusting.

**_So, we have a new one._ **

When people talk about how the Devil made them do it, Emma imagines the voice is something like this one, the S’s sibilant and slippery, the vowels breathy. It makes her shiver, the cool night air finally working its way back into her boiling skin. The breeze blows through the trees perched on Storybrooke’s scenic overlook, whips her hair around her face, and raises goosebumps across her arms.

**_Hello, dearie. You are quite the prize, aren’t you?_ **

**_Oh._ **

**_Oh my._ **

**_She has_ magic _._**

It’s like when Cora tried to take her heart. There’s a tugging on her chest, the resulting resistance making her legs and arms tremble where they are still dug into the wet earth. The way her fingers slip through the mud is her only reminder she isn’t dreaming. This is real.

**_No one with their own_ magic  _has ever welcomed me before._**

“You’re not exactly  _welcome_ ,” she grits out, back bowing so her head almost touches the ground. This hurts like hell, the voice rattling around in her brain.

There’s a resulting chuckle, something that wouldn’t sound out of place coming from a serial killer.  ** _You can always kick me out, but the price is quite steep._**

Gold’s still, frozen body flashes in her mind’s eye and the darkness laughs again, high-pitched like the man she encountered in the Enchanted Forest of the past.  ** _Weakling. Not all are meant to handle the darkness. It takes a certain strength to keep the dark from seeping into the heart. The first human lasted almost six hundred years._**

“The first human?”

And now the images are of things Emma has never seen before. There’s a man in a burgundy robe with vivid orange eyes that seem to see more in the room than Emma can. He’s standing on the other end of a huge, round table, addressing a group of men dressed like those in the Enchanted Forest. In the man’s hand is a frightening familiar sight.

The dagger.

But this one, like the one she held in her grip only a minute ago, isn’t etched with a name. The men in the room are all staring at the guy with excitement and Emma can feel the tension deep in her belly, the anticipation tight around her gut. She wants that dagger more than she’s ever wanted anything in her life. No matter what it takes.

She stands, taking a moment to make eye contact with a man with curly black hair and kind blue eyes, before turning her gaze back to the man speaking.

 **“ _I will do it_ ,**” she says in the same slimy voice that echoes in her brain.

Then the pictures drop away and she’s back in the mud, on her hands and knees, a massive headache threatening to tear her head in two.

**_You seem to be made of stronger stuff than that Rumplestiltskin._ **

**_That means we will be together even longer._ **

“Won’t you at least buy a girl a drink before you move in?” she grunts. “Seems like the polite thing to do.”

The voice laughs again.  ** _You are a feisty one. Feel free to drink, new Dark One, if that is what helps you with this adjustment._**

Illogically, Emma wants to pull up great big clumps of mud and pile them on her face and on her chest and under her arms, to drive out this boiling darkness with the chilly earth.

**_You will get used to the warmth._ **

**_I suggest sleeping on top of the blankets._ **

The idea of sleep, of oblivion, is bliss, but there’s no way that’s going to happen right now without medication or intoxication, whichever she can handle on her own.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a flask full of rum.

 ** _Ah, the pirate._**  The voice laughs.  ** _He has been a problem for quite some time. He does not care for me._**

**_You already have some proficiency with magic. If you would like some help as to the best way to kill him or subdue him…_ **

“No!”

The scream rips from her throat and another series of images—she can’t tell if these come from the darkness or are something her own mind has cooked up—bring tears to her eyes.

Killian, sprawled out on the deck of his ship, blood pouring from his chest and staining the polished wood.

Killian, eyes closed as though in sleep, face a sickening green and a bottle of poison sitting ominously next to his flask.

Killian, hands behind his back and dressed in his pirate garb, head lolling as his body swings from the gallows.

“No!” She shouts again, swallowing down the strange sense of satisfaction that wraps around her gut at the sight of the images. “I don’t want that! I’ve never wanted that.”

**_Tsk tsk tsk, no need to yell._ **

**_I am only here to help you defeat your enemies._ **

**_Forgive me, I have had centuries to imagine such things._ **

**_Perhaps, instead-?_ **

And then the pictures are of Regina burning at a stake, trapped in a cell, run through with a sword. Emma growls against those images too.

**_No?_ **

**_I could have sworn you hated the Queen as much as Rumplestiltskin did._ **

“Not anymore,” she grunts, finally bringing those mud-covered fingers to her temple and rubbing. “She’s my friend.”

**_Ah, friends._ **

She sees Lily, looking at her defiantly from the other end of a gun. She sees Neal kissing her goodbye and never coming back.

**_We cannot do anything about the dead one, but the living one isn’t a problem._ **

**_The dragon bit could even be fun._ **

“No, no, no! I don’t kill people, I don’t hurt them. I’m a goddamned  _hero_.”

There is no response for a very, very long time. Emma gingerly opens her eyes and gathers her strength to stand, her legs wobbly but otherwise unharmed. Now, without the voice, she feels strangely alone out on the scenic overlook gazing down at Storybrooke. She is going to fight this darkness. She will protect these people and get rid of this curse altogether.

The voice snickers again and she isn’t sure what exactly the sarcastic words are in response to.

**_We’ll see about that._ **

Emma opens her mouth to speak but another voice bounces around in her mind, this one as familiar and as loving as the other is sinister.

“ _D-d-dark One, I summ-mmon thee_.”

Mary Margaret’s voice is shaking, but she gets the words out and Emma can already feel her body ready to zap to her mother’s side, to kneel there in the middle of Storybrooke and do the bidding of the one who wields the dagger.

**_We must go._ **

**_And perhaps, while we’re there, we can get that dagger for ourselves._ **

**_We can be our own commander._ **

“No.”

Puffs of light blue magic rise from the ground and send her away from the edge of town, but not to where the dagger is being held aloft. Emma reappears in the Sorcerer's library, the last place she had been with all her family, trying to figure out a sensible plan. A place too far for them to find her right away.

Someplace safe.

Someplace where  _they_ are safe from  _her_.

**_Safe from you?_ **

**_No one will be safe from you._ **

**_Not with your powers, new Dark One. I have never seen one who could resist the pull of the dagger._ **

There is another high-pitched giggle and Emma rubs her temple again, wishing she could chase the voice away with a gentle massage. Her fingers and face are still covered in mud.

 _You’re in deep shit now, Swan_ , she thinks sardonically. But another puff of blue magic and her hands are sparkling clean. If only they could stay that way.

The voice giggles again and Emma finally snaps. “Could you just be  _quiet_ for a minute, Donnie Darko? This constant banter is giving me a headache!”

She hears a faint  ** _hmph_** , but otherwise, no more noises. She slumps in a wingback chair and takes a few deep breaths. Apparently, after the first attempt to summon her, Mary Margaret had given up really quickly. Emma knows, somewhere inside of herself, that her mom hadn’t wanted her to show up; not really. If she had, then there would have been no way for Emma to resist the pull of the dagger. But for now, there’s a cool little river running around her heart, keeping it from melting under the heat of the darkness. She imagines that she’s Elsa, putting a layer of frozen ice between the center of her being and the boiling blood in the rest of her body. Emma doesn’t know if it’s successful, but the thought calms her a little bit and helps her drift into a restless sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In her dreams, she’s raised by a woman who is not her mother, someone with dark hair and darker eyes. The woman’s face is twisted in disgust when she tells her that she will never reach her full potential; that she is not a prince, not a knight, just a little boy who was sent out into the country so she didn’t annoy her parents.

“You want to be king? You will have to earn it.”

She trains with a sword for years, and the day she rides a beautiful, midnight steed across the drawbridge of Camelot and battles her father to prove her mettle—to prove she is worthy to be a knight of the Round Table—she sends a missive to Morgause.

“I have done it. I am a knight of the Round Table.”

“Is that enough for you? To be a lowly knight?”

“No,” she sends back a month later, having seen the way her father favors Lancelot. “I want more.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Emma’s sleep is light, despite the strange deepness of her dreams, and the quiet sound of a door opening on the other side of the huge home wakes her with a start. Her hands fly to the arms of the chair and the muscles of her calves spasm almost painfully.

**_Company._ **

**_Good. It was getting boring._ **

Before the voice can get too worked up, Emma stretches her arm toward the secret door to the  library and with a twist of her wrist, a lock clicks into place. Only someone with magic would be able to open it.

And maybe only someone with magic should face Emma in this state.

She can hear the footsteps approach the library and the voice in her head starts to cackle with increasing glee. She’d punch this darkness in the face, if only she could. A few hours is more than enough to drive you nuts.

How did Gold stand it for hundreds of years?

The footsteps stop outside of the library and the bookcase moves a bit with the force of someone trying to push. But it’s no use, what with locks that hadn’t existed a few minutes ago now keeping Emma safe and secure from whoever’s stupid enough to—

“Mom?”

 _Henry_.

**_Henry?_ **

**_Oh, Henry._ **

**_Smart lad, smart lad, finding us here._ **

**_I always liked Henry._ **

**_Even if he was a little dangerous._ **

As the voice returns, Emma’s own lips close tightly, determined to fake him out and get her son the hell away from her before she makes another mistake. The memories of hurting her son— _of fucking hurting her son, his body flying through the air and collapsing on the ground in the forest_ —are still seared in her mind. The reminder from the darkness is not a pleasant one, despite how the voice cackles.

**_Ah, so you’ve hurt him before._ **

**_I can help you do it again._ **

“Not a chance,” she mutters quietly.

“Mom, I know you’re in there.” She can practically hear the eyeroll in his voice and despite her overwhelming fear, her cool heart freezes over a little more at the familiar sound. He’s better than the darkness as company, but she is more than a little nervous about bringing the two together.

“Mom!” His voice is losing all trace of patience. Distantly, she thinks how this is a sign of things to come, the life of the mother of a teenager. “Mom, don’t you trust me?”

Trust?

Her early life was built on anything but. These days, however, she’s learned the comfort and the power of letting someone else bear the load, of giving up control and believing in others. It’s something Henry had taught her before anyone else here in Storybrooke ever could.

She would trust Henry with her life. But does she trust herself with  _Henry’s_ life? 

No. She doesn’t trust herself. Or the darkness.

**_We do not trust anyone._ **

**_Let the fool in. See who he trusts now._ **

The voice is eager to get to Henry. Emma bites down on her lip, the copper taste of blood filling her mouth. It slides down her throat when she swallows.

“Henry, get out of here.”

“Mom! What if I put something on the bookshelf? Would you let it swing through? Without me?”

Her heart screams  _no_ and the voice screams  _yes_ and Emma, against her better wishes, listens to her son.

Well, she tells herself it's her son she listens to.

“Promise you won’t come in.”

“Promise.”

His feet shuffle a bit and then she hears him step back. Her tongue swipes at the twin indents from her front two teeth and the tiny cuts they produced. Now or never, apparently. She waves her wrist slightly and lets the bookshelf swing open. When it has rotated 180 degrees, she stops it with another wave.

Emma stands on shaky legs and makes her way to the bookshelf, searching for something new that Henry would think is helpful. She finds it immediately, a small black leather cuff that reminds her of one placed on her arm ages ago, in another land, to help her on a quest to find a way home. Emma remembers Killian’s flirtatious smile, the way he had placed her hand on his shoulder to put the cuff on and the soft feeling of leather beneath her fingers.  _Killian_. The ice strengthens around her heart again and she picks up the item despite the screaming in her brain.

**_No._ **

**_No._ **

**_Get it away from us, get it away._ **

**_I don’t want it on again._ **

“It’s the cuff that Pan made. It keeps you from being able to perform magic!” There’s some of that teenage boy pride in his wobbling voice and, for the first time since she stood at Granny’s—head resting on Killian’s shoulder, chatting easily with her parents—Emma smiles. Damn, she has a smart son.

The voice yells and hollers and puts on a horrible tantrum, but Emma still slides her wrist into the cuff and takes a deep breath.

The voice is still there and her skin still feels like it’s on fire.

But she can’t do magic. That means she is a little safer to be around.

The bookcase is now easily opened with a little pressure and Emma smiles again when she sees Henry on the other side, her strong, smart, amazing son.

He takes after his grandparents with no effort at all. She’s still working on following in their footsteps.

Emma opens her arms and before she can say anything, he flies into them, nearly knocking her over. “Mom,” he says into her shoulder, his voice trembling and his arms tightly wrapped around her waist. “I’m glad I found you.”

“That’s what we’re good at, kid,” she replies with a pat on his back. “I’m glad you found me and that you found an answer.”

Her son somehow holds her even tighter and Emma allows herself to close her eyes and remember this moment. The cool center inside of her is frozen despite her burning skin and she runs her fingers through Henry’s hair with a sigh.

**_Didn’t you know, new Dark One?_ **

**_Love will only bring you pain._ **

**_And children - they will only become your downfall._ **


	2. Chapter 2

When Killian Jones turned his ship around, bean in hand, with a new commitment to living for something other than revenge, he’d never imagined that he would find himself standing over a defenseless, unconscious, and powerless Crocodile with even more reasons to hate him. As he runs his finger over the cool edge of his hook, he realizes that for the first time in hundreds of years, he could plunge it into the wretched man’s heart and kill him. It would slice through his muscles, past his ribs, and slide home into that now disconcertingly white heart.

The dark anger of centuries bubbles inside him, urging him to correct the balance of the universe. He wants to exact justice for Milah, for his hand, for Emma, and all those the man had wronged. He wants to disappear into his rage—to slip it on like a well-loved coat and hide from the despair and anguish threatening to destroy him. But he knows now that anger is just another path to destruction, so he shoots daggers at the Crocodile with his eyes and reminds himself that before this is all through, they might need information the former Dark One can provide.  That thought helps him stay his hand.

"Do you know, Killian?"

The sound of his name snaps his head up and his mind back to the present.

"Hmm?" He quirks his eyebrow, hoping someone will repeat the question. He glances over the assembly crammed into the dusty pawn shop: Emma’s parents stand apart, arms wrapped around each other. Regina and Robin are similarly arrayed but with the addition of a tear-streaked Henry at her side. He envies them their ability to hold each other and draw strength from their mutual love. His eyes slide to Belle, the only other solitary figure in the room, and she gives him a searching look.

"Why didn't the summoning work?" She asks. After weeks working together in the library, she is used to repeating questions when his mind wandered.

"I have no clue," he shoots back with a shake of his head.

The summoning. Emma had disappeared in a flash, the dagger clattering to the street and Henry bursting from the shop a moment later, screaming.

“MOM!”

He ran towards the dagger and Killian had reached for him on instinct, pulling the lad into his arms as he raged against what had just happened. Nearby, Snow cried in long, broken sobs as her husband struggled to keep them both standing. It was Regina that had finally stepped forward and picked up the dagger. Grasping it carefully, she carried it to Emma’s parents.

“Summon her. Bring her back.” Regina’s tone was soft and gentle, as though she were speaking to a skittish horse. After a shared look and a nod of encouragement from her husband, Snow grasped the dagger.

“Emma! Emma, come back.” Her voice had echoed through the deserted street as Regina shook her head.

“You have to call for the Dark One,” Regina said in that same soft voice.

Snow nodded and threw a glance at Henry and Killian. “D-d-dark One, I summ-mmon thee."

They waited, ears and eyes straining for some sign of her arrival, not even daring to breathe. Nothing happened. Broken and confused, they had shuffled back into the pawn shop where they had started to talk over the events and Killian had slipped into himself.  

"Well, you studied the Dark One longer than anyone here," Belle replies, pulling him back to the present. Her eyes plead with him to have an answer and he takes a deep breath. He feels hopeless and helpless, but if he can find a way to be helpful, maybe he will find some hope, too.

"Aye. I did. From the accounts I read, the dagger's power should be absolute. If she is conscious and free to act then she can't ignore the demands of the dagger’s wielder. There is no escaping the control of the dagger."

He met the eyes of those in the room, trying not to contemplate the meaning of his words.

"Well, she isn't dead," Regina says firmly. She squeezes Henry's shoulder. "If she were dead, her name wouldn't be on the dagger."

"So, did she transport to another realm?" David asks, a deep weariness in his eyes and his voice.

Regina and Belle both shake their heads. "No. To transport between worlds, you need a portal," Belle answers.

"Or a curse," Killian mutters under his breath, but Regina still hears and narrows her eyes.

"So she is here, alive, but somehow unable to come to us?" Snow sums up the situation.

"So it would seem." Killian rubs at his forehead.

“Or she is fighting the control of the dagger.” Regina’s eyes light up with her realization. “Gold was able to resist Zelena when he shared his body with Neal. Since Emma took on the Darkness willingly, maybe she still has some free will.”

Killian feels a ray of hope at her suggestion that Emma could resist the dagger. If it were so, it would mean that her disappearance wasn’t because she was incapacitated but because she was staying away on purpose—perhaps to protect them.

"We need to find Merlin." Henry's voice is strong despite his hastily dried cheeks. The attention shifts to the lad as his eyes find Killian’s. "Before he died, the old man said that Merlin was the one that tied the Darkness to the dagger, and that he could help stop it. Whatever is happening to my mom, Merlin is the only one that can help her."

In the chaos, Killian had forgotten the injunction to find Merlin. He wanted to hug the boy for his clear head in the face of tragedy.

"But…" Belle looks at Henry apologetically. "Merlin is a myth. Just a story. And if he did ever exist, he is long dead. Stories about him go back hundreds of years."

Henry raises his chin. "Well, all of you were characters in books written hundreds of years ago in this world. Why can't Merlin be the same?"

Regina runs a soothing hand over his shoulder. "It's not that simple, Henry. If Merlin is alive, there are so many possible realms he could be in."

Unbidden, a line from a poem learned long ago enters Killian’s head.

_"Now imprisoned he awaits the knights from a far shore."_

"What was that?" Belle asks from his side.

"Nothing. Just something my father taught me."

The face of David Jones, blue eyes and dark, curly hair, flashes before his eyes, and Killian shoves it away. He rarely thought of his father, but Merlin, King Arthur, and Camelot had been his favorite bedtime stories. Killian had grown up dreaming of being one of the three Grail Knights and saving all of Camelot. He and Liam would play knights for hours and then eagerly ask to hear the stories every night. He hadn’t thought of those stories in years; he had locked them away along with the now painful memories of his father.

_"On Camelot rash Merlin cast enchantments o're the land."_

Another line sticks in his head and as he repeats it, he wonders if, like the stories of this realm, his father’s stories might have been true.

"I think we could start in Camelot," he says.

"Brilliant suggestion, but Camelot isn't a realm you can visit," Regina counters with a roll of her eyes.

Killian feels his excitement vanish as he begrudgingly realizes that she is right. In his long life he had never heard of anyone going to Camelot; even Pan had never sent him there.

"But Lancelot came from Camelot," Snow protests.

Charming nods. "But didn't he say that he could never go back? That the passage was closed to him?"

"Actually, Rumple went there, once, when I lived at his castle," Belle offers.

All eyes swivel to the figure lying on the cot. Snow looks at Rumple forlornly.

"So the only one who knows how to get there is in a magical coma," she says.  

"Excellent. Let's just wake him up and ask, then, shall we?"

“No, that might kill him.” The heartbreak in Belle’s voice makes Killian immediately regret his glib suggestion. She still loves the bastard. He flashes her an apologetic look.

“We will figure it out without waking Rumplestilskin,” Charming says firmly. Killian doesn’t argue.

"I have a lot of books on Camelot. We can try to find the answer there," Belle says, and Killian gives her a nod. There is a long silence as everyone exchanges slightly vacant looks. Killian has seen enough new sailors to recognize that look: they are awaiting orders. Individually, they are all strong and independent people, but in Storybrooke, they have grown used to working as a team, each accomplishing separate tasks to overcome the villains. But with Emma missing, they have lost their leader.

Killian clears his throat.

"Right then,” he says in his best command voice. Their heads swivel toward him. "David, you and Snow go check on the town and make sure the Darkness didn't do any other damage. Explain what happened to everyone at Granny's. I am sure the dwarf will manage to spread the word. Find out if anyone has seen Emma and warn them she might be dangerous." The couple nods. "Belle and I will remain here and work on figuring out where Emma might have gone and a way into Camelot." He gives Belle a quick look and she smiles back. "Regina…"

"I'm sorry, who put you in charge? Last I checked, we weren't on your ship."

Killian considers arguing with her but knows it will get him nowhere. He fixes her with a steely look and is surprised when she raises her hands in a warding off gesture.

"Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"Zelena. She might know something that we don't."

"I doubt my sister will be eager to help."

"She might talk to me," Robin offers, laying a gentle hand on Regina's shoulder. They share a look and she nods.

"I'm coming with you," Henry calls, emerging from the back of the shop with something in his hand. He doesn’t know when the lad slipped away but the grin on his face makes Killian’s eyebrow tick up.

"We can contain her with this." Henry waves the object and Killian realizes it is Pandora's Box, the perfect prison for a magical entity.

"Henry, that’s brilliant!” Regina looks on proudly. “We can stick Zelena in the box and use the leather cuff on Emma if we find her."

" _When_ we find her," David cuts in.

"Excellent thinking, lad," Killian jumps in, cutting off the potential argument. "You go with Regina and bring back the cuff."

Henry beams and tosses the box lightly in his hand before turning to leave with eager steps, Regina and Robin following hand-in-hand. Instead of following suit, however, Snow and David approach Killian.  The dagger is still clutched in Snow’s hand and she raises it as if offering it to him.

"Hook, do you…" she trails off.

Killian looks down at the dagger, at the way the light dances over its sharp edges and gets swallowed up in its black scrollwork. The words “Emma Swan” cause his eyes to swim. He shakes his head and has to clear his throat before he can speak.

“No. You keep it.” For centuries that dagger had been his only object, the key to getting his revenge and happy ending, but now the idea of touching it sends a chill up his spine.

Snow nods, her chin wobbling and her eyes shining. David wraps an arm around her shoulder.

"Hey. It's like she said. We found a way to take the darkness out of her once. We can do it again." The weight on his chest eases just a fraction and Kilian is grateful for the Prince’s ability to maintain his hope.

“Aye,” he nods, and David places a hand on his shoulder before leading his wife outside.

As the door closes and the bell ceases its tinkling, Killian takes a deep breath. The clip of Belle’s too tall heels draws his attention and he hurries to help her with the stack of books teetering in her arms.

“Like old times.” She gives him a wan smile and they set to work.

* * *

 

It feels like hours later when Killian looks up from his dusty and dry book. Belle sits at the counter, books spread out all around her, completely engrossed in her task as her eyes flick rapidly over the page. He appreciates her ability to maintain focus with all that has happened. For Belle, though, he suspects books and research are a kind of haven in times of stress and heartbreak.

Killian, for his part, would much rather be up doing something or fighting someone. Sitting in the silent shop, his mind wanders back to the street. He relives the final, awful moment over and over: the anguished look on Emma’s face, the echo of “I love you,” the darkness swallowing her whole. He rubs his beard and lets his eyes wander to the cot where the Crocodile lies in magical repose. Even as a villain, he wouldn’t have killed a defenseless man, but that didn’t stop the hate from welling up again. It seems unfair that he is completely unaffected by the chaos he caused.

"Killian.” He turns back to Belle. She speaks without looking up from her book. “What was it you said about being imprisoned and waiting for knights?”

 _“Now imprisoned he awaits the knights from a far shore,”_ he repeats automatically, unsure why it is relevant.

Belle glances up from her book, her eyes wide. “Yes! Do you remember any more?”

“Of course, but it’s just something my father used to recite at bedtime.” He waves his hand as if he can push away the memory of his father’s low voice lulling him to sleep with the gentle cadence of his words.

“Just humor me.” She purses her lips and he rolls his eyes.

“Would you like me to start from the beginning?”

“Just whatever you remember.”

He nods and reaches into his memory, letting the image of his father’s face shadowed by the dying fire be his guide.

 _“In Camelot King Arthur ruled with chivalry and light. To be noble, brave, and true the call of every knight.”_ He finds the rhythm of the words naturally. _“One sought power and so he brought destruction unto all. On Camlann's field the bold knights fought and Camelot did fall.”_

As he speaks it is like pulling on a string, each word unraveling into the next.

 _“On Camelot rash Merlin cast enchantments o're the land. Each man locked in time and space awaiting his command. The mighty wizard did not see the wolf was at the door. Now imprisoned he awaits the knights from a far shore.”_ As he says the line that she had been interested in, he glances at her, but she is engrossed in the volume before her. He takes a deep breath and continues.

 _“From Camelot fled Percival; seeking two to wield the Grail; three are required for this grand Quest or Camelot will fail.”_ Killian pauses, the string suddenly cut short. _“Or Camelot will fail,”_ he repeats. He furrows his brow, trying to remember what came next. He knows that in the stories, Percival searched all the lands for other knights to help him and usually ended up getting involved in an adventure instead. Percival and his quest featured in many of his father’s tales; he’d been Killian’s favorite knight.

 _“He scours the realms but with each year his hope slowly wanes.”_ Belle’s voice rings out. _“Cursed and deathless he endures whilst Camelot remains.”_

Killian draws in a sharp breath. "How did you…?" he cocks his eyebrow.

"It's in this book!" She cuts him off in her excitement and lifts the book up to show him. Killian crosses the room to inspect the page. "It’s from a poem called ‘The Once and Future King.’” She glances back down at the page. “It’s a key piece of Grail literature. This author theorizes that it is meant as a road map to Camelot.” Belle bites her lips and flips a few pages. “Although there is some debate about that.” Belle flips a few pages in another book. “Others say it is just a story about the Fall of Camelot.” She falls silent as she continues reading.

Killian rubs his temples, his rings cool on his forehead. Unbidden, the memory of a summer’s day flashes before his eyes.  

He is fighting Liam in a sundrenched clearing. He hasn’t grown into his long legs and his arms are weak and spindly compared to his brother’s. The wooden practice sword is heavy in his hands. Despite the difference in their sizes, he manages to anticipate Liam’s strike and counters it as his father had shown him. Liam ends up on his back, Killian grinning over him with an outstretched hand. Liam bats it away in frustration.

“That’s bad form!” Killian says, glancing to his father for judgement. The man stands to the side, an elegant sword at his hip, left hand rubbing at his beard, his ruby ring sparkling in the dappled light. Blue eyes rove over his boys but he makes no move to intervene.

Without warning, Liam stands and, without leave from their father, attacks again. His blows are harder and sharper than they should be for a sparring session. Killian blocks the blows, but his arm aches and when Liam twists his blade, Killian can’t hold onto his sword. It flies away and Liam raises his wooden blade to his brother’s throat.

“Yield!”  

“Never!” Killian grunts, knocking away the sword and barreling into his brother. They fall to the ground and become a tangle of limbs as they scrabble.

“ENOUGH!” Father’s voice bellows over the clearing and the boys still. He steps forward and separates them. He gives them both a hard stare. “A true knight of Camelot knows his limits and admits when he has been fairly beaten.” Killian looks away in shame as Liam grins smugly.

“I’m sorry, Father.” he begins.

“I’m not talking about you, Killian.” He turns his piercing blue eyes on Liam.

“Me?”

“Aye. Killian had you on the ground and yet you did not yield.”

Liam clenches his teeth. “But you always say that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

“Yes, I do say that, but Liam, that is to inspire you to have courage, not as an excuse to indulge your pride. Pride, my boy, is a great failing. A proud knight can take down a kingdom.”

“Like Merlin did to Camelot,” Killian pipes up, his spirits restored even as Liam rolls his eyes at him. His father nods and ruffles Killian’s hair before stepping back.

“Now apologize to your brother. If you are going to be knights, you will need to listen to each other, trust each other with your lives.”

There is a long pause before Liam grunts out, “I am sorry, Killian, for not accepting defeat.”

It is Killian’s turn to grin smugly.

“Do you accept your brother’s apology?” His father asks after a pause.  

Killian shakes his head. “No.”

“Killian David Jones.” His father’s voice is even harder now. “To refuse to forgive is against the oath. What does it say?”

“I will forgive when asked, that my own mistakes will be forgiven,” Killian repeats mechanically.

His father nods. “So you can school your mind to memorize. Now prove you can school your emotions just as well.”  

The knights’ oath had once been important to him. He had wanted to be a knight and to make his father proud, so he had forgiven Liam that day because the oath demanded it. But Killian had never managed to master the art of forgiveness any better than Liam had gotten control of his pride. For abandoning his family, Killian had never forgiven his father.

When his father had left, his mother and brother had told him that he was on a quest and would return very soon. But he never did. Over time, the family had come to assume that he had died for his quest; this seemed right to Killian, that he had sacrificed for a hero’s journey. But as the years passed, Killian had learned more of the world and the darkness that lives in men’s hearts. He questioned his father’s story. Eventually, he rejected it entirely.

His father was no knight. He served no king. What quest could he have possibly undertaken? How could nobody know what came of him unless he had intentionally left no trail? The jaded pirate understood what the naive Lieutenant never could: David Jones had abandoned his family, leaving behind only his fanciful stories and two signet rings.

In the dreary shop, Killian absently rubs his lone thumb over those two ruby rings. One was his; the other had once sat on Liam’s hand, copies of their father’s. When the boys had come of age, their mother had given them to her sons with tears in her eyes and the injunction to make their father proud.

He shook his head. Liam’s solution to making Father proud was to blindly serve a wicked king; his stubborn pride and faith in that king had gotten his brother killed. Out of habit, Killian pushed the thoughts far away. They were old wounds and it wouldn’t do to reopen them when he had fresh ones to deal with.

Belle mumbled to herself. "No. That doesn't…" She flips pages and consults her notebook and two other large books.

"What did you find, lass?"

She shakes her head and flips a few more pages.

"Killian, aren't you the same age as Rumple?"

He arcs his brow. "Nearly. He is perhaps ten or fifteen years older. Why?"

"It's just, this poem. Stories and legends of Camelot and Grail knights go back over a thousand years. But this poem is relatively new. It was written only 130 years ago, I mean, accounting for the cursed time that is."

Killian doesn’t quite understand her confusion. "Many stories and poems are passed on orally before being written down."

Belle purses her lips and shakes her head. "No, it…"

Whatever she might have said is cut off by the tinkling of the bell. They turn to see Henry entering, followed closely by—

"Emma," he breathes. His heart stutters before pounding to life, as though in the time apart it hadn’t truly beat. He bolts across the small space toward her.

She is in the same clothes, but her jeans are muddy and her white sweater is streaked with dirt. There are dark circles under her eyes, but her skin is clear and she still looks like his Swan. He gathers her into his arms and buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in and threading his hand through her hair, encountering a few twigs.

 _"I love you."_ He thinks the words, but the sounds stick in his throat. He speaks with his actions and moves to capture her lips. She jerks away. Her body is suddenly rigid. He pauses his hand, moving to brush at her cheek; she looks down. He lifts her chin and tries to get her to meet his eyes.

"Emma, love. What's wrong?"

She shoots him a weak smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

"It’s Donnie. I… it’s complicated..."

The door bursts open again and Snow and David tumble in. Reluctantly, Killian steps away, allowing the family the chance to reunite without him. As they embrace, he notices the tightness around her eyes and the leather cuff on her wrist. In his joy at seeing her, he had forgotten the danger—she may look like his Swan, but all that swirling darkness is now inside her.

Her name is on the dagger; her battle with the darkness has only just begun.


	3. Chapter 3

The cuff has been sitting heavily on Emma’s wrist for weeks now. It’s there when she rolls out of bed in the morning and it shakes slightly when she brushes her teeth. She finds herself fingering it at times, times when the Darkness is drowning out her thoughts and her mind feels crowded. The cuff becomes a safety blanket of sorts, something to remind her that even though she can’t control her thoughts, the Darkness can’t control her magic.

And now they want her to take it off?

Emma nervously twists the cuff around her wrist and gives Regina a dubious expression. “Tell me again why you need me to use magic?”

Regina sighs as though Emma were an annoying child and not the Savior turned Dark One. “As much as I hate to admit it, your powers far exceed mine right now. I won’t be able to contact Ariel without your help.” She gestures to the mirror hanging on the wall in her mausoleum. “So I’ll just take this unfashionable bit of leather off—” Regina says, laying her hand on the cuff, “—then we will call the little mermaid and ask her to come to Storybrooke and create a portal for you.”

**_Take it off. Take it off._ **

Donnie is chanting like a frat boy in a strip club and Emma squints at the sudden invasion.

“The voice again? Ronnie?” Regina’s face has softened and her fingers curl around Emma’s wrist.

“ _Donnie_ ,” Emma grunts. “As in _Donnie Darko_? The 2001 movie with the giant evil bunny rabbit?” The mayor gives her a blank look, one eyebrow rising high.“Nevermind,” Emma says dismissively, pulling her arm from the mayor’s grasp. “Let’s get this thing over with.”

The moment the cuff comes off, Emma is surprised to feel her headache go away, the voice receding into deafening silence. She blinks twice and rests her hands on either side of the cool wall behind the mirror, trying to concentrate on the last time she spied on Ariel.

“You have to do more than just watch her, you have to speak to her,” Regina whispers encouragingly. “Focus on the need to talk and the mirror will go two ways.”

Has Emma ever even spoken to Ariel before? She’s pretty sure she hasn’t, but there was a redhead in one of her classes in middle school who was obsessed with  _The Little Mermaid_  and the girl wouldn’t stop talking to Emma about it. She focuses on her memories of that girl and on Ariel and Eric twirling lovingly on a beach as she watched them through another mirror.

“Hello?” And then it’s like she’s looking through a window into another world. A pretty woman with long, red hair and a confused expression is staring her in the face.

“What’s going on?” The woman asks.

“Ariel.” Regina steps closer to Emma so she can look over her shoulder and into the mirror. “We need your help.”

The same uncertain look Emma had on her face a moment ago crosses Ariel’s. “No offense, Your Majesty, but why would I want to help you? I thought the score was even.”

“You would be helping me,” Emma adds with a tentative smile. “I need to get to the Enchanted Forest and we don’t know any other way to cross realms.”

“What help could I be?” Ariel asks. “I can only open up portals in the water, and that tends to be really wet for you people with legs.”

“We have a ship! The Jolly Roger. We can travel with that, can’t we?”

Ariel’s eyes narrow and she gives Emma a curious look. “Are you the woman Hook loves? The woman he wanted his ship for so badly that he betrayed me?”

Is there a right answer to this one? Emma can still remember the way Killian’s hand had shook in her own grip as he recounted the story. He had been pale talking about it, full of shame at his own actions and embarrassment at how selfish he was willing to be. Emma’s cheeks warm and she decides to go for the truth, even if it implicates her too. “Speaking.”

The redhead twists her lips as though she’s coming to a decision. Finally, she nods. “Whatever you need, I’ll help you out. I’ll swim to Storybrooke in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Emma exclaims, relieved. “Thank you so much.”

* * *

She used to think it was a cliche that parents hid their children behind them when walking past pure evil. Nope. Not a myth. Stuff like that happens on the regular these days in Storybrooke. Emma Swan can hardly make it down the street without an over-excitable parent gasping and placing themselves between Emma and their precious kid.

Emma counts two incidents on her way to the docks. Pretty impressive for a school night.

But the looks aren’t affecting her as much tonight as she rides the post-magic high. The tingle of magic under her skin felt so good—like an alcoholic’s first drink after two weeks of sobriety. And though Donnie hadn’t said a word as she talked to Ariel and solidified details, there had been an itching reluctance as she slid the cuff back on her wrist.

“Looking to set sail, love?”

Just the sound of his voice brings a chill to her chest. Emma turns to look up at Killian, perched on the edge of his ship and fiddling with a bundle of ropes.

**_Convenient for wrapping around his throat._ **

She ignores Donnie’s return and smiles harder. “I am, sailor,” she quips. “Is she set to travel between realms?”

Killian’s eyes flick downward and he very obviously checks out her rack. Emma bites her lip to hold back her chuckle from his appreciation of the skimpy outfits she has taken to wearing since Donnie took up residence in her brain. Freezing out the loft isn’t exactly reasonable with a newborn in the next room. Today’s tank top leaves her arms and chest exposed to the evening chill but her shiver is more from the way Killian’s tongue is slowly tracing his bottom lip.

“You contacted Ariel?” His gaze returns to her eyes and his  _excitement_ turns to excitement. “She will help us travel to the Enchanted Forest?”

Emma nods and makes her way on deck. Killian’s hand is there to help her step on board. He’s  _always_ there. She smiles against his throat when she burrows her head in the place where shoulder meets neck. He smells so damn good—like some ancient, spicy cologne that only sexy pirates can find. “She will,” Emma whispers against his skin before placing a light kiss there. “But get ready for some teasing about leaving her to die.”

He groans and the way his chest vibrates against hers feels good too. “Not even the best sailor in all the realms can out pace his past, I suppose.”

She pulls away and shakes her head slightly. “Sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself.”

His body tenses and he blinks at her as though she has said something important. But before she can ask what is on his mind, his fingers comb through her hair and cup the back of her neck to pull her into his arms again.

**_Go away, pirate._ **

**_“Don’t touch me with your filthy hand.”_ **

Emma’s palms land on Killian’s chest and she pushes him away with all the strength that she has. It isn’t magic under her skin now, it is disgust, prickling down her spine and making her heart flash with sudden heat. Killian’s entire face crumples. The words that were in her head are heavy and bitter on her tongue. She gasps—one to rival the mother she came across earlier—and draws her hands back to her body in horror.

“Killian, I’m—”

He waves her off, looking at the shoreline over her shoulder rather than her eyes. “I understand. That was not you.”

This time, when she steps into his embrace, it lacks the easy intimacy of mere moments earlier. Her fingers awkwardly slip against the small of his back and the smooth leather that covers it. But she still grips his jacket and holds him close. It takes a minute for his body to relax again. When his nose brushes against her ear and his hook slides under the hem of her tank top, she shivers.

“That feels nice,” she hums. The hook runs higher and then in gentle little circles. Emma gets goosebumps.

“We will not have to deal with your parasite much longer, love.” His words are muffled from the locks of hair he presses his kisses against. “I shall have you all to myself again.”

**_Oh the_ arrogance  _of this one! To think that he could defeat me after three centuries of failure._**

**_Travel to whatever realm you would like, there is no way to destroy the darkness._ **

“Belle really thinks there’s something there that will help us find Merlin?” Emma pulls away from Killian to look in his eyes. He nods.  ** _“What is it?”_**

A crease appears on his forehead. “I believed we agreed not to discuss details.” His finger taps her forehead and he smiles teasingly. “Too many voices listening in.”

Like lightening, she grips his hand and twists it, hard, until his knees bend and he looks up at her in shock. _“ **I am not a child, you imbecile. I deserve to be told where exactly we are going and why before I deprive you of your remaining hand.”**_

“Swan…” he says, his voice a low warning, and it is the sound of her name, spoken so many times in frustration and admiration alike, that shakes her back to her senses. She releases him and starts to consider chopping her own hands off so she won’t hurt him again.

“Shit, Killian, I am so—”

“Swan.” He reaches out to take her hand back in his and squeezes firmly. “Emma.” She is shaking a little bit. No wonder parents hide their kids from her. She really  _is_  a monster. A dark, dirty, no-good monster. Killian’s fingers trace a warm path up her bare arm until they grip her chin and force her to look up at him.

“It is getting worse.”

She nods.

“Donnie is lashing out because we are getting close. It happened often when I would interrogate prisoners. That is a good sign, love.” His thumb runs along her jawline and he offers a trembling smile. “No one will let you succumb to this darkness. Least of all me.”

The promise of his words is sealed with his lips upon her own and the solid comfort of his heart beating beneath the palm she presses to his chest.

* * *

  
Emma  _wants_ to hug her mom, but her arms feel like weights at her side, keeping her from reaching out to comfort and be comforted.   


“Don’t worry, Emma,” Mary Margaret smiles, her sad eyes reading the hesitation in Emma’s. “You’re in good hands with these three.” She gestures to David, Henry, and Killian standing next to Emma. “And Storybrooke is in good hands with me and Regina.”

Regina pulls Henry into her arms and kisses the top of his head. “I still don’t like the thought of you going,” she says.

Killian lays his hand on Henry’s shoulder and pulls the kid into his embrace. “Your lad shall be in excellent care,” he chirps. “And I imagine if we did not let him come with us willingly, he would be a stowaway on our voyage.”

Henry grins and Regina frowns. “Still,” Regina continues, holding her son’s hand. “I’d feel better if you stayed.”

“I”ll be fine, Mom, promise,” Henry says with a roll of his eyes.

**_“He might as well stay. It’s not like he’ll do any good.”_ **

Emma claps her hand over her mouth at that one, eyes wide. She feels her cheeks burn even hotter than the curse.

“Its okay, Mom,” Henry says softly, dropping Regina’s hand to pick up Emma’s. “That wasn’t you. We have to do whatever it takes to get you back to normal again.” Henry’s touch fortifies Emma and she squeezes back. What did she do to deserve his undying faith in her?

Emma does allow her mom to hug her, reluctantly. In truth, she hasn’t wanted anyone to touch her since Donnie showed up. Maybe its an irrational fear that darkness is catching or maybe its a rational defense mechanism to keep the people she loves safe. Whatever it is, Killian hadn’t stood for it at all and the ban on holding one another had lasted all of two hours. But Killian is more steadfast than her parents in that regard - she wonders if she’s even let her mother  _touch her shoulder_  since the curse affected her. It feels nice to have her mom’s arms around her now. When she thinks about her real name,  _Snow White_ , her heart does that thing again where it chills and she starts to think that they  _can_ find Merlin  _and_ find an answer.

“Are you ready, Swan?”

Killian’s voice is gentle against her neck. “Aye, aye, Captain,” she jokes, and though his smile does not reach his eyes, it’s a smile nonetheless.

**_I do not see what you see in him._ **

**_Common born. Ill-mannered._ **

**_He would have never made it as a knight._ **

“Shut up,” Emma whispers for the millionth time. “I don’t want to hear it.”

* * *

Their passage through Ariel’s portal and to the Enchanted Forest is as wet and dizzying as was their voyage to Neverland. She chuckles at the thought that it’s like being flushed down a toilet and there’s some delight when Donnie laughs back.

“At least someone enjoys my potty humor,” she says to herself.

When they emerge to the vivid blue skies of another realm, Emma takes a deep breath and marvels for a moment in the magic of it all. How different it was last time she was in this world - still pushing her mother away and feeling strange about her newly found family. And now, with her son and her father in tow, returning with one of her enemies from before, its almost like she’s a whole other person.

Well. Now she’s two people.

“Fall off. Furl the courses and shorten the bowline,” Killian shouts at Henry, who seems to know exactly what he means.

“Wouldn’t want to broach.” Henry shoots back with a smile as he goes to work.

“Do you ever feel useless?” Emma asks, stepping up to David, who is watching the other two with amusement. “Like if we weren’t here it wouldn’t make a difference?”

David turns to her and wraps his arm around her shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the way she shrinks back from his touch. “You aren’t useless, Emma,” he tells her gently, still watching Henry and Killian. “You are the Savior, and right now we’re helping you save yourself.” She shrugs, not feeling so hopeful herself.

Emma and David eventually get drafted into helping guide the ship to shore, some of the motions coming easily from when she had done it in the other version of reality. But those memories are a little sluggish and she is having a hard time remembering all of them, particularly the excitement at working side-by-side with Killian and the relief at seeing her son after what had seemed like years.

“How far do we have to go?” Henry asks when they step on land, a hand shading his eyes as he surveys the forest.

“Belle said it was a day’s journey at most,” Killian answers. He pats his chest, where she assumes there is a map hidden in an inner pocket of his jacket. “We should make camp before nightfall.”

Henry fills their walk with stories of what Storybrooke was like growing up—stories that even Emma hasn’t heard. How Henry wasn’t very big before he realized that no one around him was getting any older like he was. How it confused and isolated him for years. How Regina would tell him he was imagining things but he  _knew_ that he wasn’t.

**_Clever boy._ **

**_“If he had listened to his mother then none of us would be in this mess. That is what he gets for meddling with forces he doesn’t understand.”_ **

“Emma.” David nudges her and she realizes she’s said something again. Henry looks a little downcast at that one. Killian falls back and claps Henry on the shoulder.

“I must disagree with the Donald fellow on that one, lad. Had you never sought your mother out, I would never have met her in the first place.” He catches Emma’s eye and shoots her a playful wink.

_“Don’t you know, Emma? It is you.”_

She has to be Killian’s happy ending again. Be worth Henry showing up at her door in Boston for. Be Prince Charming’s brave, sword-wielding daughter. Emma feels a shiver run through her and when they make camp for the night, Donnie doesn’t say a single word.

* * *

 The next day’s hike is relatively peaceful as Donnie continues to be silent. Emma is glad for the reprieve. Even the group is more subdued than the day before, mostly listening to the sounds of birds calling and the occasional rustle that signals a fleeing deer or rabbit.

Snow starts to ring the trees and the air grows colder, reminding Emma of Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Henry shivers a bit and, without thinking about it, Emma slips off her leather jacket and drapes it around his shoulders. Another year and the jacket will fit him perfectly.

“Don’t you need it?” Henry asks, pulling it around him just the same.

“No.” Emma smiles and lifts her arms, letting the cool air hit under her arms and along her sides. “This feels incredible.” For the first time since becoming the Dark One, Emma doesn’t feel like she’s about to burn up.

The clumps of snow become thicker and larger until they are walking through a gentle snowfall, the flakes melting immediately on Emma’s boiling flesh. She holds out her tongue and lets a few snowflakes fall on it. Henry is shivering even harder and David draws close to him, shaking as well. Even Killian, the man who walked around Storybrooke in the dead of winter flashing as much chest hair as possible, has his hand deep in his pocket and his collar turned up.

“Belle told us to look under the snow by a tree stump,” Killian says, teeth chattering. The four of them make quick work of shoving aside snow with their hands and feet until a circle, not much bigger than a sewer entrance, appears under the white fluff.

“The Dark One’s Vault,” Killian whispers, voice tinged with awe.

“Now what?” David asks. “Isn’t this where Neal died?”

Killian clears his throat. “He died trying to bring the Dark One back to life. As the Dark One is alive, Belle’s research suggests Emma should be able to open it by stepping into the center.”

“Well, then, here goes nothing.” Emma smartly places her feet dead center of the brass circle. She doesn’t have to wait more than a second for the horizon to rise and her body to sink below the surface of the ground, as though the entrance to the vault were some kind of elevator. “Hop on!” she shouts, gesturing with her arms. “I don’t know if this thing will take more than one trip.”

The three of them crowd around her, surrounding her with sudden warmth that makes her immediately miss the gently falling snow and freezing breeze. Clutching one another, they descend into a perfectly round chamber and, when they step off of their little circle, it rises again and seals them into the room.

“Great,” Emma mutters under her breath. “We’re stuck.”

“I would not be overly worried, lass,” Killian chuckles, striding forward and peering at what looks like doorframe in the wall with no visible doorknob. “I believe we have found our entrance to Camelot.” He points with a ring-covered finger to the miniscule engravings of snarling wolves.  _“The mighty wizard did not see the wolf was at the door. ”_

_Almost as though_ someone  _wanted us to find this,_  Emma thinks. Donnie remains silent.

“So, what do we do?” Henry’s voice rises in pitch and he is practically quivering with excitement.

“Emma has to do something,” David responds, fingers running along the edge of the frame. “I think we’d better take the cuff off and see if it will respond to magic.” His body is tense, like he is afraid of his suggestion.

Her hand flies to the cuff.  _No, not again._  “I don’t know, guys. Maybe there’s another way? I’m a little nervous about temping fate a second time.”

“Mom.” Henry’s arm wraps around her waist. “You can do it. I know you can. I heard you were awesome contacting Ariel with Mom’s mirror.”

It’s true. Emma rubs her forehead but no noise surfaces. All’s quiet on the Western Front. But her skin prickles and she’s afraid that this is a huge mistake, that whatever she does next is going to screw them all over.

“It seems the only way forward is magic, lass.” Killian reaches out with his hook, hesitating for a moment, and finally brushes some of her hair off of her shoulder. His body is as full of tension as her own, but his eyes are determined. “The cuff will go back on if we suspect any foul play.” His fingers wrap around the piece of leather and softly, gently, he tugs it off, his blue eyes watching her carefully the whole time.

The result is instantaneous. The bit of wall contained in the frame disappears and suddenly they’re on a cliff, high above the ground, looking out over a beautiful, lush world. The mountains are snow-capped and the forests are a vibrant green. But there is something wrong in the world and it only takes her a moment to realize what it is.

She can see, on a huge field miles below them, that a massive battle is going on. Men with swords and bows and arrows are attacking one another. There are also many dead bodies lying on the ground, blood staining the earth and limbs twisted into unnatural angles. The sight would be gruesome enough if not for the horrifying fact that every one of them appears to be frozen in time.

_“Each man locked in time and space awaiting his command,”_  Killian whispers in a hushed tone.

“Awesome,” Henry breathes.

“No wonder Lancelot said he could never return,” David mutters.

**_Merlin is near. I can feel his power._ **

For one single moment, Emma watches in slow motion as the battle starts again. Metal clangs against metal and horses rear back and blood drips to the ground. It passes so quickly that none of the others notice it. But Emma does. How could she not? How could she not notice the sudden surge of magic that fills her body and gives stupid Donnie a chance to laugh, this one deep and cocky as hell?

**_I knew your pathetic excuse for a family would find a way to return me to Camelot._ **

**_At last._ **

**_One of the advantages of stowing away with a group of eager hero types._ **

**_“We’re off to see the wizard.”_**  Emma’s lips twist into a smirk and she steps forward into the doorway. As the three of them take the step with her, none of them notices how she has tossed the cuff over her shoulder and into the vault behind them. 


	4. Chapter 4

The flickering fire dances in Merlin’s eyes as he sits gazing into its depths. Deep within the flames, dancing images that were once cloudy and blurred at the edges—possible futures, once hazy with uncertainty—have since turned sharp and vivid. He watches as the Savior and her companions trek through the neverending winter toward the Dark One’s vault.

Merlin pulls his blue robe tight over his thin frame. The cold air and the falling snow reach out from the vision and chill his bones. As the scene transfixes him, anticipation thrums through his body. His long imprisonment is almost over.

He watches them descend into the vault and the vision clouds and disintegrates into ash before him. So the Dark One could protect her secrets from even Merlin’s keen eye. In frustration, he pokes the fire with his staff. Around him, the cave walls glow brighter from his surge of magic; day and night, that same pale blue light pulses gently through them, keeping the cave perpetually aglow with the magic that sustains him and keeps Camelot anchored, unmoved by the stream of time.

The enchantment had been designed to ensnare the Dark One and give Percival enough time to act. But the fiend had perverted the hastily cast spell and left Merlin and Camelot trapped in his stead. Unable to act for himself, he had sent others out to battle the Darkness: Percival, his Apprentice, the Author, Lancelot. Centuries had passed while they fought in other realms without him.

A small gust of wind swirls through the cave, disrupting centuries’ worth of dust. It’s a ripple, a change. Merlin can feel something shift—pushing against the enchantment, causing time to start for the briefest of moments. The portal is open.

He sighs, long and deep, a man ready to be finished, to sink into the ground and never rise. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly from disuse. The sound travels no further than the fire before him but seems to echo in the emptiness.

“And so at last I finally end.”

He had begun centuries ago, when the world was young and the realms few. Being the seventh son of a seventh son, he was called a luck child, and magic was in his blood. As an adolescent, he chose to use his magic to become an agent of light, to fight against darkness. He traveled all the realms, gathering knowledge and power as he fought and recruited others.

They called him a sorcerer, wizard, benevolent mage; all manner of titles befitting one much greater than he felt. For he _felt_ like a scared young man, fighting monsters and the primal powers of creation, ever only a step away from death. When he learned of the power of fire seeing, he studied hard to master it so as to keep a step ahead of his foes. Through it he was able to see into the possible—it was not long before people added “seer and prophet” to his titles—but he was only concerned with how it could aid him in his crusade.

Late one night, his face burning from the flames, he saw the promise of Camelot. The shapes were blurry with uncertainty, but with the right ruler, it could be a haven of peace and beauty, of equality and justice. It was his fondest dream made manifest and the next morning he made his way to Camelot, determined to make it a reality.

When he arrived, Merlin had learned that Camelot’s strongest ruler was King Ambrosius. Intelligent and proud, the King was intent on his political machinations and personal plans for glory: to unite all the kingdoms of Camelot into one. He wanted to use Merlin’s magic to accomplish this goal, an offer the wizard declined. Even without the gift of sight it was easy to see that Ambrosius was not the right ruler for the kingdom Merlin had seen.

Failing to find the one he sought, Merlin had quickly left Ambrosius’ court to scour the realm for the king of his vision. It was at the far edge of Ambrosius’ kingdom in a fertile, backwater valley, overseen by the noble but notoriously ill-tempered Sir Ector, that he finally found what he was looking for.

Merlin was in the woods outside of Sir Ector’s estate when two young boys came bursting through the underbrush. The taller, older, child was fair-haired and grinning cruelly as he raced forward with something held high in his hands. The smaller, dark-haired boy chased after him with wide, fearful eyes.  

Merlin cast a concealing spell and watched the scene unfold.

“Kay! Put him down, Kay! He’s mine!” The smaller boy yelped and jumped, trying to snatch a black bundle from the other’s hands.

“Surely, Arthur, you didn’t think a mere fosterling would get his own hunting hound?” Kay taunted.

“You said I could have him!”

“Did I? Well, as heir, it is my right to change my mind. Now I say that if you want the runt, you must take him.” Kay grinned and raised the bundle higher. Arthur grited his teeth, a determined glint to his eye, and rushed the taller boy, knocking him flat to the ground. Kay fell and released his prize; it yelped loudly when it hit the ground. The bundle grew legs and a tail as it squirmed away and Merlin saw that it was a small, fragile-looking puppy. Arthur scrambled off Kay to snatch up the puppy and soothe it.

Kay laughed and rolled to a sitting position. “Excellent! The runt lives!”

Arthur glared at his playmate.

Kay stood and brushed off his pants. “Come on, Arthur, it was all in jest. You didn’t think I would actually kill it?”

Arthur shook his head. “Kay, you should _protect_ those that are weak, not toy with them because you are bigger and stronger.”

Kay laughed again. “You have the funniest notions, Arthur.”

That night, Merlin saw in the fire a large assembly at Ambrosius’ castle. Shouts of “Hail King Arthur!” echoed through the chamber. The next morning, he offered his services to Sir Ector as tutor to his son and fosterling.

In time, Merlin discovered that Arthur was Uther’s son and thus Ambrosius’s nephew, born through an affair and hidden away from the world. Arthur thought he was an orphan; in reality, he was two heartbeats away from the crown. The lad was intelligent, kind, and thoughtful, quick to learn and humble in his failings. His commitment to protect the weak and uphold justice inspired others and Kay, despite an unpromising beginning, grew into a fine and loyal knight through Arthur’s example. Merlin came to love the lad as his own and strove to guide him to be the man that could rule the Camelot of his vision.

By the time news of Ambrosius’ death in battle and Uther’s succession to the crown reached Sir Ector’s estate, Merlin had been teaching the boys for ten years. But Uther was not his brother. Ambrosius may have succeeded in uniting the entire realm under one rule, but Uther’s new title as High King of Camelot was built upon his brother’s military victories and alliances. His own position was precarious. A few months later, a royal messenger arrived to take Arthur to court. Uther’s lack of heir made his death a potential opportunity for an ambitious noble or lower king; to shore up his rule and protect his life, Arthur, his secret bastard, was to be legitimized and brought into the light.  

The now eighteen-year-old Arthur took the news of his elevation from orphan to prince with trepidation and a new sense of purpose.  

“Do you think my father will approve of me?” he had asked as they sat around the campfire the night before they reached court.

“He’d be a fool not to!” Kay declared with a slap to his thigh. He had grown tall, muscular, and fiercely defensive of the foster brother he had once tormented.

“King Uther’s approval is not the key to your coronation,” Merlin muttered as he stared into the fire, trying to see the best path to assure Arthur’s ascension.

“What the devil does that mean?” Kay asked, playfully poking his former tutor in the chest and causing his vision to dissolve.

“It means,” Merlin snapped, “that Ambrosius ran roughshod over too many powerful people. It means Uther does not have the skill to placate them or hold onto the power his brother won. It means that if the kings, nobles and commoners are to support Arthur’s rule, it will take nothing short of a miracle.”

“Am I to be king, then?” Arthur had whispered in wonder, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

“Yes, Arthur, you will be king.” Merlin’s tone brooked no argument. In their years together, he had made no secret of his powers or prophetic abilities, but he had spared Arthur the weight of his possible destiny.

Arthur squared his shoulders, his jaw clenched, and nodded as though taking his tutor’s affirmation as a call to arms. Merlin felt a swell of pride as he watched Arthur stare into the fire and knew he was already deciding what kind of king he would be.

When they got to court, Arthur, though technically the Crown Prince, was treated with suspicion and held at arm’s length. Nobody knew quite what to do with the bold prince, still in the early flush of manhood and with strange ideas about equality and chivalry. When Uther died suddenly, Arthur had only a few staunch supporters and his succession was far from secure.

King Lot made an immediate play for the crown, adding fuel to Merlin’s suspicion that Morgause, his power-hungry wife, had poisoned Uther to pave the way for her husband. But because he himself was too busy devising an enchantment to ensure Camelot would be ruled by one worthy, he never discovered the truth.

It was risky using the ancient and powerful sword Excalibur as a litmus test. But Merlin devised a means to magically embed the blade in a boulder and ensure it would only slide free in the hands of the true king of Camelot. Despite believing that Arthur would pass the test, Merlin’s heart still pounded loudly as each man tried and failed to free the sword.

When Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone in front of the gathered masses, there had been only a few shouts of dissent. When he was coronated, the shouts had been silenced by Arthur’s leadership abilities and the overwhelming support of the people.

King Arthur ushered in a golden age. The people and land were more productive; internal strife ceased; justice and equality ruled, drawing noble and brave men to Camelot. Arthur welcomed them as brothers and introduced them to his radical notions of governance and chivalry. He sent them out into the lands as champions and it wasn’t long before the Knights of the Round Table were known throughout the realms for strength, bravery, chivalry and wisdom. The strongest accompanied Merlin and aided in hunting down the dark creatures of the realms as he wielded his newest weapon in the fight against the Darkness.

In his decade as a tutor, Merlin had applied himself to devising a way to harness magic. With the Falcon’s Chamber, he succeeded. Taking the form of a tall, pointed hat, the Chamber transported magical creatures to a netherworld and absorbed their powers. The power could then be repurposed and used by Merlin for whatever he needed. With the help of the knights, Merlin soon had so much power contained within the Chamber that he didn't know how to use it all.

Then Lancelot, Arthur’s greatest knight, approached him wanting a magical solution to his feelings for Guinevere.

"I can't help it, Merlin. I love her. I have tried leaving, accomplishing quest after quest, but each time I return home she is here. Arthur embraces me and sets me next to him at the table and all I can think of is the love I have for his wife."

Merlin had stared at the knight. The man had dark circles under his eyes and seemed to have aged years in the last few months.

Lancelot dropped his head in his hands. "Just take it away. Make me forget her, make me love another," he whispered.

"I will think on this. I promise I will help you, Lancelot, but matters of the heart are delicate and come with a steep cost."

As Merlin sat that night staring into the fire, he saw a future of destruction, the Fall of Camelot itself, and he realized that no matter how many Chernabogs or ogres or evil wizards he vanquished, there would always be darkness in men’s hearts. Hate, jealousy, greed; these things would breed discord and all their work would be for naught. Merlin glanced at the Falcon’s Chamber and thought of all the raw power stored within it. An idea began to form.

* * *

"Is that even possible?" Arthur asked from his place at the Round Table. The entire court was seated at the table to hear Merlin's proposition. As king, Arthur had the final say, but he would not go against the judgement of his knights.

Merlin looked around the table at thick and stocky Lady Bors, fair-haired and smiling Sir Galahad, calm and thoughtful Sir Percival, and all the other brave and noble knights until finally landing on the newest member of the table—Mordred. His eyes were a sharp green, like his mother’s, but his hair and chin belonged to his father.

Mordred was Arthur and Guinevere's son, but like Arthur himself, he had been raised away from court as a ward to King Lot. Merlin had worried about the placement, fearful of the influence of Morgause and the ambition of Lot, but the lad contradicted his fears. Merlin had heard tales of the great deeds that had earned him the title Sir and a spot at the Table. And Arthur would play no favorites, not even with his own son. Every person had to prove themselves worthy of the honor of the Table and of ruling the realm.

Merlin spoke, measured and even, but his voice carried in the silent chamber.

"I believe it is possible. Magic comes from emotion: hope, love. These are powerful emotions, and you have felt the magic they carry." He looked pointedly at Arthur as the king clasped Guinevere's hand. They shared a smile. The True Love that existed between the King and Queen was already legendary. Together, they turned their eyes to Mordred, the product of their True Love. The young man smiled back at them.  

"Yes. We all know the power of True Love and hope," Guinevere spoke, her green eyes swimming.

Merlin nodded at the table.

"Precisely. But negative emotions have power as well. Hate, anger, greed, envy, lust…" Merlin let his eyes wander over the Knights. "Their power could destroy Camelot. But if I can pull the magic from them, harness it, and make it corporeal—tether it to a human vessel—then I can destroy it, and nothing will ever keep Camelot from the Light."

"Is Camelot so dark now?" Guinevere asked, her eyebrow raised.

Merlin kept his eyes from darting to Lancelot. The man believed his feelings a deep secret but Merlin doubted she was completely insensible.

"Camelot is not dark, but there is danger on all sides. Dark emotions will always be a threat as long as they have power. We must remove that power."

"But Arthur's question still stands. How is it possible to do what you propose? If getting rid of Darkness were possible, surely it would have been attempted before." Percival's deep voice boomed across from Merlin. It didn't surprise him that Percival would be the one to ask the important questions; he was a wise and virtuous knight and his opinion well respected at the Table.

Merlin met Percival's piercing sea blue eyes and saw his skepticism.

"The power we have harnessed in the Chamber," Merlin gestured to the golden cylinder at the center of the table, "will allow me to make the Darkness corporeal and bind it to a magical object." From his robes he produced a dagger. "This dagger is as strong as a dwarf axe and imbued with more power than Excalibur. It will keep the Darkness in check, keep it from overtaking the human vessel, and control the vessel if needed."

Percival rubbed his short black beard in thought.

"And who will be this vessel? Who will take on this Darkness?" he asked.

"I will." Lancelot's voice rang out immediately. No one was surprised; Lancelot was the bravest of them all and always taking on the most difficult challenges.

"Before you volunteer, search your heart," Merlin countered firmly, his eyes fixed on the man for a moment before dancing around the table. "The vessel must be possessed of Light. To resist the Darkness, you must be free of the darker emotions." There was silence as each man consulted his heart.

"What will happen to the vessel?" Percival's voice echoed in the silence.

"If they keep the Darkness at bay, they will be scarred, but they will survive, and be the greatest hero of all the ages."

Percival huffed and rolled his eyes. With a falling heart, Merlin knew he had not convinced the man.

"I don't think we should attempt this, Arthur." Percival turned to his king. "What man or woman is completely free from Darkness? The risk is too great. There is too much peril in such raw power and untried magic."

There were nods around the table, but others disagreed, and soon the chamber was full of animated discussion. Merlin watched and waited, listening to the cacophony and trying to discern which way the knights were leaning. Eventually, Arthur raised his hands, and the room quieted.

"I am inclined to trust Merlin in this matter. However, without a suitable vessel we cannot proceed. I will force no man into this task."

"I will do it." A voice sounded from the far side of the room. Merlin's head swiveled and he was surprised to see Mordred standing. "I will do it," he spoke louder, strong and firm as he met his father's eyes, “for Camelot."

Arthur nodded back, a proud smile on his face.

“Sir Mordred was born of True Love and is thus predisposed to the Light. If he is willing and his heart true, then there could be no better vessel.” Merlin’s endorsement was met with thoughtful nods.

When the table finally voted, only Percival and Lancelot dissented.

It took time and planning to prepare the spell. Merlin worked non-stop, racing to contain the Darkness before it could bring about the horror he had seen in the fire. He spent time with Mordred explaining how the spell would work: how the Darkness would give him power, but that the dagger would keep him from using that power.

"I won't lie, Mordred. It will be very difficult to resist the pull of the Darkness. But being the product of True Love, you will have an advantage."

“What advantage?” Mordred had asked, staring at the dagger.

“The connection your parents share. Their pure and True Love imbued you with the potential for great Light magic. When the Darkness enters, if you can focus on that love, you will be able to keep it contained.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You may still prevail as long as you school your emotions. This is no easy task. The Darkness will seize upon anything to sway you, to pull you into the Dark. You must have faith and focus on the Light.”

His green eyes glinted and jaw clenched. Just like Arthur, a sign of determination. Merlin thought Mordred much like his father, nervous but eager for the path ahead. Never for a moment did he doubt his intentions.

He was a seer that could not see, blinded by pride in his past victories and his desire to vanquish the Darkness and preserve Arthur and Camelot at any cost. When all was ready, Mordred and Merlin went alone to his enchanted cave. The delicate and powerful magic would be a danger to any bystanders; even Merlin could not predict what the gathered Darkness might be capable of before it was tethered.

They stood in the center, the walls pulsing blue around them. Mordred clutched the dagger, his knuckles turning white, and nodded to the wizard. Merlin returned the nod and with a wave of his hand, he opened the Chamber. He placed the glowing hat upon his head and the power of the captured magic thrummed through him. He took a deep breath and began the incantation.

_"Plague and horror, depraved zeal, seek no longer to conceal."_

The walls dimmed and the air turned oppressive. The fire still burned, but it was obscured by a thick, black fog. A heavy weight settled on Merlin’s chest as he continued.

_"Ascendant scourge, converge anew, upon the dagger your power imbue."_  

He pushed the words and the magic out and around the gathering Darkness, drawing on the power of the hat to continue. The Darkness began to coalesce into a swirling mass of midnight black above their heads. Wind whipped around them with a deafening roar. Merlin turned to Mordred.

"It's time,” he shouted into the screaming air and gestured to the dagger.

Mordred swallowed and nodded, lifting the dagger into the air with a shaking hand. Merlin pulled more power from the hat, his limbs shaking with the energy pulsing through him.  

_"Purest evil, blackest bloom, darkness fills but can't consume.”_ His voice boomed with augmented power and the Darkness swirled faster and faster. _“Never dying but contained, bound inside a willing chamber."_  The dark mass plummeted downward and wrapped around Mordred in an impenetrable blanket.

"Merlin! It burns!" The young knight’s voice called in fear and panic. Merlin dredged up the last of his strength, almost draining the hat, and completed the spell with a shout.

_"Shorn of anger, thornless danger, there forever to remain."_

The dagger seemed to pull the Darkness into it until it disappeared in a blinding flash. Suddenly, the wind stopped and the light from the fire flared back to life. Merlin removed the hat and sagged against the cave wall as the magic drained away.

He struggled to maintain consciousness. Mordred lowered the dagger and stared at his name etched there for a long moment, emotions flitting across his face.

Merlin weakly raised his hand. “Give me the dagger.”

Mordred shook his head, his jaw clenching in that heartbreakingly familiar way.

"Mordred," Merlin gasped, "fight it. Don't give in to the Darkness."

Mordred lifted his head, his face red and flushed and his eyes pitch black, not a hint of green or white. He sneered.

"Why would I fight it?" He flexed his free hand into a fist. "With this power, I don't have to prove myself to my father or his knights. I don’t need their approval to be king. I can take the crown.”

"No!" Merlin protested even as his vision blurred. He slid down the cave wall and Mordred strode away, dagger in hand. As he faded into unconsciousness, Merlin realized his mistake. Mordred had been motivated by ambition and pride—not love or self-sacrifice. Being the product of True Love wasn't enough to contain the Darkness when he carried darkness with him.

The wizard’s last thought was a flicker of hope. He had never disclosed how the Darkness would be destroyed once it was tethered; _that_ he had kept a closely guarded secret. As his eyes fell closed, he hoped he wouldn’t take it to his grave. 

* * *

When Merlin awoke, it was to a burning in his belly as a strange liquid was forced down his throat. His limbs were stiff and his head pounded as his eyes fluttered open. The blue walls of the cave pulsed around him, but instead of a cold floor, he was resting in a soft bed. He blinked. Slowly, Percival’s grim face came into focus.

"I told you it was too perilous," the knight said without preamble as he tossed aside an empty vial.

“Mordred!” Merlin croaked. “The dagger!”

Percival shook his head. “We know. You have been in a trance for months, muttering nonsense. Your Apprentice said we shouldn’t remove you from the cave.”

“Mordred—has he—? What has he—?” Merlin sat up, his head swimming.

Percival placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into the bed.  

“The boy has gathered an army. He used his magic to turn the hearts of the kingdom against Arthur. Tempting them, making deals to turn their hearts dark. He calls himself the Dark One, a singularly unoriginal moniker if you ask me.” Percival sighed and rubbed his temples. “Arthur marches to Camlann now. But it is foolish—Mordred is too strong. They will surely be destroyed."

Merlin sneered. "Is that why you are here, Percival? Too wise to stand with your king to the bitter end?"

Percival cast his eyes heavenward and threw up his hands. "No, you blasted wizard. I am here because only _magic_ can save us now."

The knight picked up the gold cylinder of the dormant Falcon’s Chamber and thrust it into Merlin’s hands. “Sir Lancelot replenished it’s power. We set out as soon as we realized what had happened. He was beside himself with guilt. Blamed himself for the entire business.” The knowing look Percival gave him made Merlin realize that Lancelot had shared his secret with at least one other.  

Merlin activated the chamber and placed the hat on his head. Magic and power coursed through him and he felt alive and whole instantly.

“Now tell me you can destroy this Dark One.”

“I will need the Grail.”  

Percival quirked his eyebrow “Am I supposed to know what the bloody hell that is?”

Merlin took a deep breath and shared his last secret; how to destroy the Darkness.

* * *

They had come so close to defeating the Mordred that day. Merlin had frozen all of Camelot to trap the Dark One, giving Percival time to get to the battlefield. But the wizard was too weak,  the enchantment hastily constructed—the Dark One perverted the magic and used his own to trap Merlin in the cave and Camelot in time. Percival alone had been free to pursue the Darkness through the realms.

To his torment, Merlin was able to see but unable to act. In time, he managed to release a few others from the enchantment and into the realms, but none had been successful in their quest against the Darkness. Centuries passed; Dark Ones rose and fell. And still Merlin remained, waiting. Until the Darkness was destroyed and its magic dissolved, he was a prisoner.

Now a different Dark One had been born—like Mordred, a product of True Love, but unlike him, she had taken on the curse in an act of sacrifice. She was fighting the tempting pull of the Darkness unlike any he had seen before and at her side were three worthy to be called Grail knights. For the first time since his failure he felt hope rising in his dusty veins. But the heroes were ignorant of their true path and any guidance he might provide would need to be carefully veiled from the Dark One.

Merlin sighs and stretches his long fingers forward, stoking the fire with magic. They would arrive soon and there is little time to devise a way to give them the information and tools they need. Though the fire reveals nothing but shadowy figures, Merlin can feel in his bones that the waiting is finally over. Either Camelot will fall, or it will be saved.


	5. Chapter 5

Emma can feel the magic rippling across her skin. The ice around her heart melts and drips away until her skin is boiling again. Already, she itches for a return to the snowy Enchanted Forest. She isn’t sure whether this surge of magic comes from the air here in Camelot or the fact that Donnie had her throw the cuff over her shoulder, but it is freeing, being without that shackle, filling her lungs with the ancient air of this new world and her veins with the magic that hums on every surface.

Emma and her company turn, the doorway having vanished behind them, and face what looks like the opening to a cave. The men on the field below them are still frozen, a carving of a battle, and Emma suddenly realizes why there is so much magic in the air.

The magic belongs to  _her_. Well, more accurately, the magic belongs to the Darkness with a capital-D for  _Donnie_ , but it feels like it belongs to her. Every pore is reacting to the thick magic coating every surface of this world and keeping everything from moving an inch out of place.

**_Not all of the magic, Dark One. Can you feel_ his  _magic? It infects this realm._**

She can. And it is like an itch she cannot scratch.

The four step tentatively forward and into a small, circular room. It is filled with shelves and tables overflowing with thick, ancient books, the sort of library Belle would drool over. At the far side of the room are the dying embers of a fire and a figure, dressed in blue, hunched over it as though to draw heat from the nonexistent flames.

**_Merlin._ **

Emma’s fingers crackle with magic and the desire to inflict damage on the man, but before she can let Donnie act, Killian and David draw their swords and the sound echoes off of the walls.

The man’s voice is deep and reassuring, the kind of guy who would get cast for voice-over work for movie trailers, but Emma can feel her hackles rise at the smooth timber.

“If I meant you harm then you never could have set foot in Camelot, let alone my cave.”

“How reassuring,” Killian mutters, his voice dubious but his motions sure as he sheaths his sword, her father mimicking his action.

There is a long pause while the four interlopers look around the room once more, although Emma’s gaze is locked on the softly glowing pile of wood.

**_Damn fool thought he could see everything._ **

**_He was wrong. He never realized what I was capable of._ **

**_We can do so much, Dark One. Together._ **

**_We can kill the old man and rule all the realms._ **

**_We can decide what is wrong and what is right._ **

**_We are invincible._ **

Emma rubs her temple and tries to think of something cool, something cold, but all she can think of is the warmth of the dying fire.

“Uh. Merlin?” Henry breaks the silence with a cough and an awkward chuckle.

“Just so.” The man doesn’t turn around but flicks his wrist and seats appear on either side of him, around the fire. “Please sit, we haven’t much time.”

The group enters further into the room, steps cautious and quiet, and Emma tries to sit as far from the wizard as possible, not sure what will happen if Donnie gets too close to the guy. He looks just like the visions she has been having for weeks - a young man, maybe even younger than herself. His eyes are the same vivid orange as the dreams but there is not a single wrinkle on his light brown skin. Neither his appearance nor his magic has diminished over the centuries.

“You’re Merlin?” Dad asks, voice filled with shock, but before the wizard can answer Emma’s mouth opens.

**_“Too vain to let yourself age, old man? What a waste to spend so much magic to remain young.”_ **

“Emma,” David says, grasping her hand in warning. He is using his Dad voice, the one that tells her she’s fucked up, but it isn’t something she remembers from her childhood. None of her foster fathers cared about her at all. The flames might as well have been licking her insides as the first flash of rage fills her body.

“Sorry,” Emma grits, trying to regain control of her mouth and her emotions.

Merlin, however, is ignoring them, eyes lingering on Killian. "The path of fate is even more twisted than I have seen," Merlin mutters, almost to himself.

Henry, meanwhile, looks like he’s meeting his idol. A huge smile stretches across his face as his heels bounce restlessly on the ground. He leans forward in his seat. “I’m Henry.”

The man finally breaks his stony demeanor and offers Henry a flash of his white teeth. “Yes. I know. The new Author.”

Henry ducks his head in modesty.

**_Next thing you know the twit will be asking for an autograph._ **

Merlin continues speaking, talking to himself as his reptilian eyes fall on each member of the party. “The Prince. The Savior. The Captain.”

The title hits Emma hard and she swallows, wishing she could regain some of the ice in her body. “Technically I am the Dark One now,” she snaps.

The wizard shakes his head. “You haven’t given into the Darkness; that makes you the Savior.”

His words are like a cool winter breeze, sending frost around her heart that quickly melts as Donnie whispers,  ** _For now_**.

"If you know who we are, then you know why we’re here," David speaks up impatiently and Merlin turns to look at him, eyes piercing. He looks back with a noble strength.

“You are here to save Camelot.”

From the other side of Merlin, Killian lets out a grunt and shakes his head. “Sorry, mate. We don’t have the Grail and we have no intention of reviving your Once and Future King. We aren’t your three virtuous Knights.”

"Nonsense. I think I know who I am hosting in my own home." The wizard grunts like a much older man and for just a moment Emma can see through his magic to the aged man he should be. He looks more like the Merlin of television specials this way, but as soon as she blinks it disappears.

"We aren't knights. We’re just trying to help my mom."

"And what, my young Author, do you think a knight is? It is not about armor or fealty to a king. It is merely someone who is dedicated to protecting others. One who defends those who cannot defend themselves. Those who are faithful in love and loyal in friendship. A person that does right even when it is difficult. They are those with true character; those who lead by their nobler instincts. I believe that describes you and your companions."

**_Weaklings._ **

**_Those who work for others instead of taking power for themselves._ **

**_Those who cannot rule on their own._ **

**_Men who would listen and obey any command they are given instead of thinking for themselves._ **

**_We are not like that, Dark One._ **

**_Others bow before us._ **

Killian looks annoyed at the definition as well, rolling his eyes. "Fine. You can call us knights, but we aren't here for you or Arthur or Camelot." He meets her eyes. “We are here for Emma.”

“Or so you think.” Merlin’s creepy orange eyes twinkle in amusement and Emma’s annoyance returns full-force, stamping out the chill Killian’s firm declaration had sent down her spine.

Killian opens his mouth to argue and Emma is sick of it - sick of the bickering and the mystery and this damn wizard who wants them to be knights instead of heroes. “Look, buddy,” Emma butts in, “it’s been a long few days, I have a terrible headache, and if we sit around yammering much longer I may do some serious damage to your Neutrogena commercial face. So why don’t you cut to the chase and tell us how to get rid of this voice in my head?”

Merlin sighs heavily, as though she were asking far too much for a Monday morning, finally squaring his shoulders and lifting a staff from the ground to poke at the fire. The embers flare to life and the men all lean back from the sudden rush of heat, Emma alone feeling a desire to lean forward, to give into the flames and burn bright and hot.

**_Step into the fire, Dark One._ **

**_Claim the magic and the heat for yourself._ **

Emma can feel Merlin’s gaze on her, like he is waiting to see what she will do. Will she strike out? Kill him? The latter seems likely as her impatience grows.

“The other guy told us that you battled the Darkness and created the Dark One Curse.” Henry draws their attention with his words, obviously eager for the wizard to stop stalling and start explaining.

But Merlin responds like they have all the time in the world. He hums quietly and keeps his focus on the flames, flickering and dancing, tempting Donnie - no, tempting  _Emma_ with their beauty.

“...But he tricked me and took the dagger and used the power against Camelot.” Merlin talks mid-sentence as if he is in the middle of telling them something, frowning when he finishes speaking.

“The Apprentice?” David asks.

The wizard looks at her dad as though he were a total and complete idiot. “The first Dark One. Mordred.”

**_“Mordred.”_ **

**_Yes._ **

**_That was his name._ **

**_Clever man, that Mordred._ **

**_I liked him very, very much._ **

Emma’s hand reaches out and grips Killian’s arm, squeezing tight in an attempt to keep a grip on reality. Has she stepped into the flames yet? They are licking at her soul, asking her to  ** _give in_**  and  ** _accept the darkness_**. His hand falls over her own and grips hers tight, though his eyes only land on her face for a moment before they return to Merlin.

“Mordred was the first Dark One? I had never heard that he was connected to the Dark Curse.”

The wizard clucks his tongue and nods, almost a contradiction. “We were too late to stop the battle. Too late..” He has started in the middle again, no connection between his former words and these.

_**“The man has obviously gone mad.”** _

Merlin pokes at the flames. “It was Percival who saved me - who saved everything.” He hunches forward again and sighs, obviously feeling like he has explained enough. But it isn’t enough for Emma, not by half.

“Ooookay.” She shifts in her seat and tries to prompt him into continuing. “So this Percival guy helped you, and then..?”

He snorts. “Percival.” The name sounds like a curse this time. “Percival! He failed his quest. He fell in love.” Merlin glares at Killian. “He failed to find two others. There must be three. One isn’t enough. One isn’t enough. One isn’t…. enough…”

Another silence and Henry breaks in cheerfully. “What did he need three people for?”

"Three, there must be three to wield the Grail." Merlin's voice booms across the small space, but at least it’s a straight answer. "Let faith light your way. Arm yourself with hope. Fight with the power of love." Merlin raises a finger as he ticks off each item and then turns the three fingers to Henry. "Three! There must be three! Faith, hope, love - the knights must prove their virtue to wield the Grail."

Killian sighs and releases Emma’s hand to gesticulate angrily. "We don't care about your bloody Grail!" He grits out through clenched teeth.

Merlin blinks, looking offended, and stares at each of them in turn. He lifts his staff up again and waves wildly in Emma’s direction. "The Grail will save the Savior." Merlin laughs like he has just cracked the funniest joke ever and when the result is crickets he turns slowly back to the fire as if they aren’t even there.

David and Henry stand, cautiously, and gesture for Killian and Emma to join them in a clump. Their bodies warm Emma again, who would rather be anywhere than this hot, stale cave with a roaring fire and three men way too close to her.

"Do we believe him? David asks, eyeing the man hunched by the flames.

Killian gives Emma a quick look. "The poem says  _For through the Grail they will revive the Once and Future King._  Nothing about any darkness.”

**_“Enough with the damn poem!”_**  Her eyes roll to the back of her head and her fingers twitch to choke Killian, anything it takes to  _shut him up_ , but her hand stops in its arc and it flies to her mouth. “That wasn’t-”

His touch is cool at the small of her back. “It’s alright, love. It wasn’t you.” Emma swallows the hot tears threatening to boil over.

“I believe him.” Henry’s voice is firm and his face is set with determination.

**_“Of course you do. You believe everything.”_**  The tears finally spill onto her cheeks and she wipes them away, wanting to pull Henry into her arms and ask for his forgiveness. “Henry, I’m sorry, I-”

Henry reaches across their clump to take her hand and Dad’s arm wraps around her shoulder.

“We need to get out of here,” David says, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “If the old man said to find Merlin and Merlin says to find the Grail, then we do it.” He pulls Emma closer and leans his temple against hers. “Good thing our family is so good at finding things.”

“Yes!” As if David’s words are a cue, Merlin leaps up from his seat and starts rooting through a table full of papers and crap. He hums and mutters for a minute before whirling back to face them again, cloak fluttering and arm up in the air. He strides across the space and holds out a stubby, used candle as though it were the Grail itself.

They look at him for a long moment before Henry reaches out and takes it from the wizard’s grasp. “What...uh…what do we do with it?”

Merlin winks. "If I told you it wouldn't be much of a test."

Emma’s temper flares again and she releases Henry’s other hand and shakes off David and Killian. "Oh, great," Emma grumbles. "Wouldn't want to make it easy or anything."

Merlin gives her a look and when his head tilts, his eyes catch a reflection of the fire, the orange burning bright and terrifying and she can see a flash of that power she has felt humming around every corner of this cave. It is a power she wants for herself,  ** _one she can have if only she reaches out to take it_**. "Nothing worth attaining was achieved by taking the easiest path,” Merlin says. He can see the darkness within her, she knows that, and at his words Donnie lets out another chuckle. Then the wizard blinks and his face becomes neutral again.

"I trust our young Author to get the ball rolling."

With a wave of his hand toward a dark opening at the far side of the chamber, Merlin turns away and returns to his fire. Henry looks at the three of them, shrugs, and steps forward to lead the way.

Donnie wants her to stick around and carry out what Mordred was never able to do,  ** _the weak fool_** , but she shoves her clenched fists in her pockets and follows Henry. As soon as they cross the line of bookcases, the darkness swallows them whole. 


	6. Chapter 6

There is no light in the cave. Killian can feel Henry a few paces in front of him, along with Emma to his right and David to his left, but he can’t see anything. When he lifts his hook in front of his face, not even a glint of light bounces off of it. He looks back and there is no sign of the entrance, no Merlin sitting around his fire no escape, just inky blackness. He grits his teeth. It’s like Neverland, forced to conform to the caprice of a madman because he had all the power.

“Bloody magic,” he murmurs, but the cave takes his voice and bounces it over and around them.

 “I have to agree with Hook.” Dave’s voice sounds from his left and echos in front and behind him. “How are we supposed to see, let alone go anywhere?”

 No one has an answer and the darkness seems to press in further.

 “The candle!” Henry breaks the silence with perhaps more enthusiasm than is proper for their situation. “We just have to light the candle.”

 A quick inventory of their persons finds that none of them possess the means of producing fire, although Killian suspects that even if they had a lighter, the solution was meant to be magical in nature. A flash of Dark Hollow and another candle comes to mind.

 “Well, love, it seems it’s up to you.” He turns to where he can feel Emma warm at his side. She exhales.

 “I...uh...that’s not a good idea.” The pain in her voice cuts through him. “Old Donnie is a bit too unpredictable right now.”

 Killian nods and then realizes that she can’t see him.

 “It’s okay, Emma, we’ll figure something out.” He feels a brush against his front as David leans across him to console his daughter. Killian hears Emma exhale and he is both happy and jealous that her father can comfort her. There is a scuffle in front of him as Henry shifts position.

 “Don’t worry, Mom, Merlin said it was a test. We both know I’m great at tests!”

 “Henry, this isn’t schoolwork! This is real and deadly and we need to get out of this cave.” There is an edge of panic to her voice as Killian feels her spinning in place. He grabs at her arm before she can run, afraid that in this darkness, once she steps away, they would never find her again.

 “Emma.” Killian steps closer and feels her stiffen. “Just stay with me, Swan.”

 “Maybe if we just keep walking, we’ll come to a torch,” David suggests weakly.

 “No, the candle is meant to help us,” the lad insists.

Killian puts little stock in magical solutions and for all his legendary status, Merlin did not seem in his right mind. He thought it more likely the wizard had given them an ordinary candle and then trap them, likely to kill them later. 

“Henry…” he begins.

“No, Killian. The candle will help us. I know it will.”

At his words, the candle ignites, revealing the lad’s grinning face. Slowly, the light builds and grows to a blinding white that envelops them. Killian feels a pull in his stomach and burning on his fingers before the light suddenly dims and they are standing in the middle of the woods, a soft breeze blowing over them and birds calling from the trees.

He looks around, taking in the shocked looks of everyone except Henry, who smiles smugly.

“I told you. You just had to have a little faith.”

“Aye.” Killian grins and looks down at the now extinguished candle.  

The word “faith” bounces around his head. He recalls his studies with Belle, the hours with dusty manuscripts that had led to theories that were never to be shared with Emma for fear of tipping off the Darkness. Belle had been enamored with the lore concerning the three noble virtues embodied by the Grail knights; faith was the first of them.

“Where are we?” Henry’s voice breaks over his musings.

“Well it isn’t Camelot, ” Emma spits.

“Enchanted Forest?” David guesses.

“Perhaps. Although I’d wager that candle has a specific enchantment that acts as a portal. Bringing seekers to wherever the Grail might be.”

“Yeah, about that.” Emma turns and fixes him with scrunched eyebrows and curious eyes. “How is some cup supposed to take away Donnie? I mean, do I drink the blood of a virgin or something?”

“Ew. Mom, that’s gross!”

“Cup?” Killian ignores Henry’s outburst, resisting the urge to point out that her son’s blood would be the only one to qualify for such a ritual.

“Yeah, the Grail. It’s like a cup, right? You have to choose wisely and then you drink from it and you get eternal life but, like, you can’t cross the seal, or something.”

David chuckles. “Emma, that’s Indiana Jones.”

She waves her hand and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Whatever.”

Killian shakes his head. “In the stories my father told me, the Grail was always a stone with the power to bring back Camelot and restore Arthur. No mention of a cup or eternal life, or the Dark One, for that matter.” He shrugs, realizing that both their stories might contain some truth to them. They wouldn’t know for sure until they found the Grail.

“Hey, guys, look,” Henry calls from across the clearing. He holds up the candle—the flame had reignited and was shooting out a small white beam pointing to the east. “I think it’s showing us where to go.”

“Of course it is,” Emma grumbles with a venom in her voice Killian was becoming all too familiar with.

Throughout the day and long into the night, they follow the candle before collapsing into sleep. The follow it the next day and the next, trudging through the never-ending forest as it slowly rises higher toward the once distant mountains. The candle will only shine for Henry, and his pride in his contribution far outstrips his rumbling belly and aching feet.

It was strange for Killian to try and reconcile the young man Henry had become with the boy he helped save in Neverland. In the beginning, Henry had been precious because of his parentage, and all Killian could see had been how he smiled like Emma or cocked his head like Baelfire. But now he just sees Henry, the boy who quickly mastered sailing, the boy who warned him to not break Emma’s heart, the boy who helped the cowardly version of himself find his courage. The young man that, despite his circumstances, always found the positive, always believed in magic and happy endings. Killian couldn’t have been prouder if he were his own son.

After days of walking, they reach the foot of the mountains. That night, Killian awakes to find David sitting by the dying fire, his eyes fixed on Emma’s sleeping form. He wants to rise and talk to the prince but he doesn’t quite know what to say. And if he were to, anyway, he would likely just receive another “hope speech,” as Henry calls them. David is as stubborn as Liam, and despite the evidence to the contrary, continues to insist that everything will work out in the end. Killian isn’t so sure. Emma is getting worse, the Darkness is gaining ground, and there is no way of knowing how the Grail might help or if they will even find it in time. Killian rolls back over, keeping his doubts to himself. 

The next morning, they enter the foothills. There are boulders strewn about and the ground pitches upward, slowing their progress. Killian is wondering if the candle isn’t leading them into some kind of trap when Henry stops abruptly and Killian stumbles into him. Emma knocks into his back and gives a huff of frustration.

“What is it?” Donnie grumbles through her.  

Killian looks up and into the sun-drenched clearing, seeing what had caused the lad to halt. There, surrounded by a green field, is a large boulder, alone, as though it had been set into the clearing for a purpose. Sticking out of it is a sword. It is worn and rusted, but a single beam of light bounces off a large ruby in the hilt. Killian gasps in recognition. His childhood fantasies come to life.

“Excalibur,” he breathes.

They flow into the clearing up to the boulder, circling it and staring.

“Isn’t Excalibur King Arthur’s sword? Shouldn’t he be using it in that epic battle we saw?” Henry asks as he reaches out and runs a finger along the cracked leather of the hilt.

Killian’s heart falls. The lad is right; this couldn’t be Excalibur, that was a story from a long time ago. The story of a young man who proved himself worthy and became king. Killian and Liam had spent their childhood taking turns pretending to be Arthur and drawing their wooden swords from piles of rock. There was something achingly simple about knowing for sure that you were worthy merely by pulling a sword from a stone scabbard.

“Obviously someone wants us to think it’s Excalibur,” David says.

“Well, you would be the expert in that, Grandpa.” Henry gives him a knowing grin and he colors.

“She told you?” He asks, referring to his own deception involving a sword in a stone.

“She told all of us, mate.” Killian smiles at the Prince’s discomfort, but his eyes are drawn back to the sword. It may not be Excalibur, but it is a finely crafted blade, though now likely useless due to weathering and rust. Killian’s hand itches to pull at it though he knows it won’t budge; he is not worthy, perhaps never was. He reaches out and pulls anyway. The sword is stuck fast, practically a part of the boulder after all this time. He lets out a sigh and turns to the others with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

“Looks like I won’t be ruling any kingdoms.”

“My turn!” Henry steps up eagerly, but though he employs both his hands, he has no more luck than Killian.

Emma crosses her arms, looking annoyed. “Okay. Let’s stop wasting time. Even if you got it out, that sword is worthless.”

“I don’t know, Emma. I think a magic sword could always be useful,” David says, stepping up to take his turn. “Just because something seems too far gone doesn’t mean you give up on it. No matter how dark it might look, you have to believe that things will work out.” As he is speaking, he wraps his hand around the hilt. He barely tugs at it and the sword slides out with a loud ring. They all watch in wonder as the rust falls away, revealing a bright and shining sword.

“How did I…?”

“Guess the sword liked your little hope speech,” Emma replies.

Hope. Killian’s mind snags on the word and like a sail catching the wind, his mind leaps forward with the connection.

“It was another test.” He looks at Henry holding his candle and the Prince with his sword. “You have proved your virtues.” They give him quizzical looks and he waves his hand. “ _To Camelot three virtuous knights must haste to the crusade. The path is dim but with pure faith a light shall be their aid_.” Killian points at the candle. “Faith. Henry has proven his faith through the candle.” He gestures at the sword and speaks the next line of the poem. “ _From a cold scabbard hope will ring arming all who fight_. David has proven his hope. Belle was right! The virtues were the key. You two are the Grail knights Percival has been searching for.”

As he says it, he realizes what it means: that if they are Grail knights, then he isn’t one. And though he knows it is foolish, he can’t help feeling as though he has missed out on the chance to prove something to himself, to his long dead father and to Emma. Henry and David both look at the objects in their hands, coming to terms with his words.

Killian gives Emma a smile. “We are almost there, love. All we need to do is find Percival and then the Grail.”

“Both are closer than you think,” a voice booms from the far side of the clearing. They all turn in unison, Killian drawing his old sword and David lowering his new one.

Through the shadows of the trees, the light catches on the shape of a figure dressed in full armor. It’s the first time they have seen anyone else in the woods and Killian feels uneasy. He takes a step forward, placing Emma behind him, and he sees David from the corner of his eye moving to flank her. The _whoosh_ of another sword from its scabbard tells him that Henry has taken up the other side.

The figure laughs, a low, warm chuckle that makes the hairs on the back of Killian’s neck stand on end.

“I see you don’t take kindly to strangers.” The man’s accent is clipped and refined.

“No offense, mate, but in our experience strangers tend to mean trouble.” He takes another step forward.

“If you go looking for a fight, you are sure to find one,” the figure intones.

David’s tone is cautious. “We aren’t looking for a fight. We are searching for a man named Percival.”

“How fortunate for you that I happen to know where he is.”

“Excellent. If you would just give us directions, we will be on our way.” Killian’s tone is forcedly bright. He doesn’t expect it to be that easy.

“Gladly. I will provide the information to whomever can beat me in single combat. You can of course refuse and try to find the man on your own. After all, is the information really worth a life?”

Killian sighs. There it is: nothing comes without a price.

“I accept your challenge,” he says before anyone else can react. They cry out in surprise. No doubt they would have preferred to discuss the matter first, but Killian can see no point. It has to be him. He is by far the most experienced swordsman, but more importantly, he is the only one that is expendable. Henry and David are needed for the Grail. There is a clanging of metal as the knight steps forward, visor in place. Killian moves to meet him.

“Hook!” Emma calls. He turns back to see the look of anguish on her face. He strides to her and sheathes his sword. Wordlessly, he raises his hand to her cheek, brushing at the tears that had fallen. Her skin is on fire, the heat from Donnie slowly consuming her. She won’t last much longer.

“Don’t. We can find Percival another way.”

He shakes his head. “This is the way, Emma. A duel to the death, just like in the stories.”

“Damnit, we aren’t in a story! This isn’t like last time, you won’t come back, and...I...I can’t watch you die again,” she whispers as her hand comes up to stroke his cheek.

He kisses her forehead, a whisper on her fevered skin. “I am not going to die. Remember, I’m…”

“A survivor,” she finishes with a half smile.

“Aye.” He gives her a crooked smirk, trying to exude confidence. His lips close over hers in a gentle caress. He feels the heat ebb away and her body temperature drop as the kiss lingers. He pulls away and rests his forehead on hers for the briefest of moments before gathering her hands in his and kissing them. With nods to David and Henry, he lets go of Emma and turns, his heart beating wildly.

He looks at the knight watching them with a tilt of his head. Killian is a good swordsman, but this man is in full armor and likely has some kind of magic on his side.  He isn’t Henry or David; he has a hard time dealing in faith or hope, only in reality. Despite his brave words, he knows these may be his last moments. He turns back to Emma, his eyes catching and holding hers.

“I love you.” He releases the three little words he has carried in his heart for so long, words he has tried to say in a hundred different ways in a thousand different actions. Words that, once spoken, leave no room for anything else. Her smile is tight. He hasn’t told her anything she didn’t already know, but it feels good to finally say it. He turns back, striding to the center of the clearing where the knight stands waiting.

As he approaches, he can feel the man studying him. With his visor in place, Killian can’t tell anything about the knight. He wishes he could look him in the eye.  

“Hook? How did a pirate end up on a Grail quest?” The visor muffles his deep voice.

Killian hides his surprise behind a smile. So the man had heard of him. “Aye. Well, perhaps nobody has told you that a pirate can be a hero.”  

“A pirate killed my sons.” The man lowers his sword.

Killian feels his stomach twist as he steps back and raises his sword, the weight of his past slamming down on him. They cross swords briefly, a light touch to test each other. Killian watches the knight’s feet, his hips, as they circle each other.  

Did he kill this man’s sons? Was this a personal vendetta? Could he use the man’s emotions to his advantage?

“It wasn’t you. It happened before your time,” the man grunts, as if reading his mind.

Killian cocks his eyebrow, his course set. “I wouldn’t be so sure, mate. I’ve killed quite a few men and it might surprise you how long my time has been. What were their names?”

Hoping the knight is thrown off by the question, he attacks, driving his sword swiftly and using his speed to his advantage as he presses him back. Despite the armor, the knight manages to dance away. He hasn’t risen to the bait. Either he is unaffected by Killian’s words or he has great control. Killian curses inwardly.

The knight attacks and Killian focuses completely on blocking his blows until he manages to beat him back.

“Such games are beneath us. If you were truly a man of honor, you would fight like one,” the knight barks before bringing up his sword. While the knight hasn’t landed a blow with the sword, he has with his words. Kilian manages to turn the attack and land a blow but misses the joint he is aiming for. His sword grazes off the armor. Pulled off balance, he feels a sting on his left bicep as the knight strikes, slicing through the muscle but without enough force to do real damage. Killian hisses in pain and staggers back. He hears cries behind him and remembers that they have an audience. He spins away and flashes them a smile before facing his opponent again.

“You can stop now, pirate. Walk away, try to find Percival some other way.”

Killian smiles through the pain. The offer of clemency gives him a strange hope: if the man wants to stop, perhaps he has a chance.  

“I don’t back down from a fight,” he grits out.

“Good.” Killian swears he can hear a smile in his voice and tenses for an attack. “A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

“What?” The words, the motto of his father, send Killian’s mind spinning just as the knight attacks. His sword comes up a fraction too late; his feet aren’t firmly planted and the blow knocks him to the ground. The sword rises for a final stroke.

“Killian!” Emma screams his name. The knight hesitates just before he is blasted back and up into the air by her magic. There is a choking sound from the man as Killian scrambles back to his feet. He hears David trying to stop Emma and turns to help just as the knight calls out in a strangled voice.

“Killian!” He turns back and sees the knight wrestling with his helmet. It comes off with a crash, revealing his face, and Killian is looking into blue eyes the mirror of his own.  

Killian turns and sprints to Emma. Her face is a twisted mask as her hands slowly pinch the air.

“Emma. I’m fine. Emma, love, stop!”

“Percival shouldn’t be allowed to live,” she spits in a voice that is not her own, and her fingers pinch all the way together.

From the strangled cry behind him, he knows the man is seconds away from losing both consciousness and his life. He grabs her face and turns her eyes toward him. But they aren’t the sparkling green that he loves.They are blown wide and owlish, the green so dark it looks black. They remind him of the Crocodile’s eyes. Frantically, Killian looks for Henry. The boy is already kneeling in the dirt and rifling through his backpack for the dagger. They hadn’t told Emma about the dagger, had only brought it as insurance in case Donnie got too strong.

Killian turns back to her. “Swan! Please! Don’t do this.”  But she isn’t listening. He doesn’t even know if she can hear him.

“Stop!” Henry’s voice cries out and Emma stiffens, dropping her hand. A _thud_ behind him signals the man’s release—the man who has curly hair, like Liam did. Killian breaths a sigh and casts a glance at Henry. He is holding the dagger out before him, only the slightest tremor in his hand.

“He’s alive,” David calls. Killian twists away, the need to go to the man pulling at him. Emma and Henry follow. They stand over him and Killian blinks rapidly, telling himself it isn’t tears forming in his eyes. He has a little more grey in his hair, but he looks exactly the same as he had the last night Killian had seen him, the night he had told them one last tale about Camelot and how three knights were needed to use the Grail. How saving Camelot was the noblest of callings and wouldn’t be easy. How it had a heavy price. Killian’s mind can’t grasp how it is possible, but here he is.

“Percival,” Emma sneers from his side, her body rigid.

Killian shakes his head. “No. Love, that is my father.”  


	7. Chapter 7

The betrayal scalds her skin, the hate coming off of her in waves as she observes the three men looking at Percival, aghast. But it is only Percival, sprawled upon the ground  ** _like the rat he is_** , that looks at her, a mixture of fear and caution.

 ** _“Who cares who he is; the man must die,”_**  Emma growls, stepping forward to attack him with her bare hands if necessary.

“No!” Henry holds up the dagger again, drawing Emma’s attention. He turns and faces her. “No, Dark One, I forbid you from causing direct or indirect harm to this man.”

It’s another burn to her chest, the way Henry holds up the only thing that can stop her and uses it so masterfully to bind her. Somewhere inside of her, she cheers.  _Thank you Henry_. But a louder voice growls and a monster curls up around her gut, waiting for the opportunity to strike again.

Killian looks pissed as hell too, stepping closer to the prone man. He doesn’t offer to help him up and he looks like maybe he wants to kill Percival instead. “What were the names of your sons? The ones that were killed by a pirate?”

“Liam and Killian. They were sailors. Liam was the Captain and his ship was captured by pirates—all hands were lost. At least, that’s what I was told when I was looking for them.”

Killian turns away from the man with a sigh, fingers rubbing his temples as though  _he_ were the one with voices in his head. David steps closer to the two dark-haired men. “I thought your brother died after your mission to Neverland?”

“Aye.” Killian grunts out the word and keeps his body turned from the party. “He died and I became a pirate and the King lied about it all to cover it up.” He finally looks down at Percival again, jaw set. “Officially, Liam and I both died that day.”

David leans forward to help the knight up and when Percival crosses to Killian, they are the same exact height, two men with messy black hair and piercing blue eyes. A sliver of her heart freezes over at the sight of Killian, the man with no family and a mysterious past, standing beside someone who looks as though Killian is a miracle.

“Killian.” Percival smiles and reaches out a hand to place on Killian’s shoulder. It is brushed away instantly and the knight’s face falls. “I’m sorry son, I would have searched all the realms if I had known you were still alive.”

“You would have bloody well known I was alive if you hadn’t abandoned us! If you hadn’t disappeared on a quest and never came back!”

“I—I did come back.”

“Not in time. Not before Mother died of a broken heart and Liam was determined to prove himself a hero, the damn fool getting himself killed in the process!”

Percival reels back as if he has been struck and Emma’s palm stings with the desire to do the striking. “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I had a choice? The Dark One was searching for me  _and_ for the Grail. I had stayed in one place for too long and he was close to finding me—to finding  _my family_. I thought that if I came back when the two of you were older, you would be able to help me finish the quest and I would finally be done.” His voice breaks a little. “I- I hoped to die happy with Blanche.”

The man’s eyes return to Emma and though Donnie wants to wrap her fingers around his throat and  ** _choke_** the life out of him, Emma can feel his son’s lips upon her forehead again, the echo of his kisses cool and soothing. “You love this woman, son? The Dark One? Then perhaps you know what it is like to fall in love when you shouldn’t—to abandon good form and your quest.”

Killian steps between Emma and Percival, trembling hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You know nothing of Emma and nothing of love.”

Percival lowers his gaze and clenches his jaw. “No, I suppose I do not. Not anymore. I have been alone for too long without anyone by my side, too lost in my mission, living long after I should have died.” He removes his gauntlets, placing them gently on the ground, and slides a heavy ruby from his finger. After a moment of contemplation, he holds it out for Killian. “Take it, son. I am no longer worthy to carry the Grail.”

“Wait, that’s the Grail?” Henry’s incredulity breaks some of the tension and Percival smiles involuntarily, a flash of teeth that reminds Emma keenly of quiet morning coffee dates at Granny’s.

“Yes, boy. This is the Grail—a piece of it, at least. I gave the other two to my sons before I left with the hopes that one day we could finally accomplish the quest Merlin sent me on so many years before. The wizard gave me this stone, forged from fairy dust long ago. Before he sent me into battle, to find the Darkness and defeat it, he imbued the stone with his own power and his own blood. But I was too late, and Mordred wounded his father beyond healing and created a portal to another world. Before sending me after him again, Merlin split the stone into three pieces. He told me that another realm would be too far for his magic to stretch. I was charged to find two other Knights to help me defeat the Darkness. The Darkness can only be driven out by the purest emotions: faith, hope,” he lifts the ring toward Killian again, “and love.”

Killian is focused on the two jewels on his right hand, examining the deep red stones. “So all this time I was carrying the Grail?”

“Yes. It took me a long time to realize that it holds protective powers. You will never reach old age and swords and spells seem to just miss you. I had hoped—” he bites his lip and his hand is shaking as he continues to hold it out, “—I had hoped it would watch over my boys.”

Killian looks at the knight - old as dirt, just like him, but looking barely a day over 35 - and his gaze is steady and assessing. He is making some kind of decision, one about forgiveness and accepting the abandonment that can come along when your parents are heroes trying to make the world a better place. Emma knows a thing or two about that decision. Finally, Killian bites his lip and ducks his head and sighs. He steps forward and grasps the ring, and then he is grasping Percival, and then they are clutching one another, twin dark heads pressed together and Killian whispering “ _Father_ ” against the other man’s shoulder.

“So how come you never told us your dad was Percival?”

They break apart with identical smiles and the knight addresses Henry. “That was because he never knew. I went by an alias so the Dark One would not find me. When I met Blanche, I called myself  _David Jones_. Although there were days I was concerned my hubris had gotten the better of me after providing Liam with his middle name.”

Killian grins. “I just thought you named him after the legendary knight.”

David seems delighted by all of the family bonding going around and he steps forward to shake Percival’s hand. “Well, my name is  _really_ David,” he says with a grin, “but I know a thing or two about going by an alias. I’m Emma’s father.”

The knight takes the presence of another parent the same age as his grown child all in stride. Damn, what a strange life Emma has. Percival nods at David and then his eyes turn to Emma and Henry. “Killian, do I have a grandson?”

David gets a wary look in his eyes that reminds Emma of some of those times Gold started to dote on Henry. “Er, no,” Killian replies, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Henry is Emma’s lad.”

**_“The twit is hardly the descendant of a knight, you fool. But then again, you were never worthy of the title Arthur gave to every pauper and village idiot who wandered into Camelot.”_ **

“And your Emma is the Dark One.”

Killian,  ** _the weakling_** , looks apologetic. “Only recently. The Darkness was cast out the former Dark One and Emma took on the mantle herself.”

**_“She is the strongest Dark One in centuries, Percival. She shall not be undone by the likes of you.”_ **

“You are right, Dark One. She shall not.” Percival rests his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “She shall be undone by my son.”

“What do we do?” David reaches for his blade, but the knight stops him.

“You are the three virtuous knights I have searched for all these years. It is only through your faith,” his eyes fall on Henry, “hope,” they return to David, “and love,” they rest on Killian, his blue gaze kind, “that the Darkness can be cast out. You must all three take up pieces of the Grail and focus your virtue on the woman you knew. This can only be attempted once. If you are not the right knights, then my searching would have been in vain and the Grail will turn to ash.”

Killian wriggles the two rings off of his fingers and, with his father’s instruction, hands them to David and Henry. Emma is fighting against Donnie now: not to run, not to flee, not to zap out of here and figure out how to get away from whatever ceremony is going down.

“Focus on Emma and on your virtue!” Percival commands, his voice a boom. With a flash, light shoots out of the three rings and bands of red begin to form around Emma, hot as lava and cool as ice.

Emma feels like a scribble - like a cartoon drawing where a kid can’t stay inside the lines. She’s all jagged lines and uncontrollable anger. And hate. And fear. And darkness. So much damn darkness she’s afraid she’s going to zip into nothingness.

**_You are stronger than this, Dark One._ **

**_Resist it._ **

**_Resist their futile efforts to contain you._ **

She sees Henry. But not how he is now, with his long limbs and his peach fuzz. Its the Henry that showed up at her door a few years ago. Short. Round-faced. And he smiles up at her like she is the answer to all of his problems. He looks at her like she is worth more than her shitty apartment and her job chasing around scum.

And then his face fades and there is nothing.

**_Of course there is nothing, Dark One._ **

**_Forget about them._ **

**_They want you to be their Savior? To get them all out of each little problem?_ **

**_Why?_ **

**_They are weak. They need you but you do not need them._ **

**_You are better on your own._ **

**_More powerful on your own._ **

And she is. Emma really is. She can remember those days when she got out of prison, no men to knock her up, no kids to keep her from living the life she wanted. She was powerful.

She was  _free_.

She could make whatever future she wanted the way she wanted it without anyone to give her stupid titles and talk about  _destiny_ and  _prophecy_ and  _faith_.

Emma Swan used to be able to do what she wanted in the world.

**_And you can again._ **

Emma smiles to herself, feeling the warmth lap at her body like the bubbles of a jacuzzi. She sinks into it luxuriously.

Then there is another image. David. Dad. He is smiling at her from the driver’s seat of the sheriff’s vehicle while they’re on patrol. Probably just made a joke about passing on the family legacy. About Saviors and destinies and crap. About heroes.

She smiles back and rests her head on his shoulder.

And then the image fades to Mary Margaret. Mom. The trembling smiles of the roommate who had become like family morph into the confident grins of the fabled fairy tale princess who straps a sword to her side and promises her daughter they will find a way back home again. Even though pessimism fills Emma’s heart, Mary Margaret pulls her close and reminds her of Henry. Of David. Of the life they have back for them in Storybrooke.

**_A life of service to idiots and weaklings._ **

**_Do you know why your parents drove the darkness from you all those years ago? Before you were even born?_ **

**_They did it to cripple you._ **

**_To keep you from making any choices of your own._ **

**_All they want is to contain you, Dark One. To put you in a box and pull you out when they need saving._ **

**_No more._ **

_No more._

Emma remembers foster home after foster home. The way no one had expected anything of her. The way she could make her own rules and be her own person. The way Emma got to leave before she got left again.

A life of no future.

And no obligations.

The heat is dry on her skin now, like laying outside on the lawn on a hot summer’s day, slathered in baby oil and trying to catch a tan. It sinks into her pores and she twists and turns so that her shoulders will brown as evenly as her stomach.

And then there is Killian.

Always, always Killian.

He smirks at her as he puts the leather cuff on her arm at the beanstalk. And he gives her a long, concerned look when he slips it off in the Dark One’s Vault. He says “I love you” but she already knows it - she’s known it for ages, ever since she blinked at him with recognition on the streets of New York City. He leans in close at the docks, praising her, obviously wanting to close the distance and kiss her. Then he  _does_ , outside of Granny’s, promising her that he can survive no matter what.

**_Can he?_ **

**_Ha!_ **

**_They can never survive, Dark One. Not for long at least._ **

**_The mortals are weak. Pliable._ **

**_You bend them to your will and they snap like twigs._ **

**_Do not waste your time with love, Dark One. It is not worth it._ **

**_They never survive. Not for long._ **

**_You are more important than any of them._ **

Killian’s eyes go blank as he crumples to the ground, her father’s sword in his back. It is the other Killian but it doesn’t make her any less scared. Walsh explodes in a pile of fur and wings. Neal’s eyes slowly shut and it is like he drifts off. Graham collapses like a sack of potatoes, his weight heavy in her arms.

And each time another piece of her heart is sawed away. Another slice of her soul is destroyed.

Is this the price of living? Of loving? To lose yourself in other’s and then to lose them too?

_It isn’t even worth it._

The heat that was so pleasant suddenly becomes abrasive. It scrapes and claws at her skin, tiny pinpricks across every surface, a web of thorns and needles. Even her throat feels raw but still Emma opens her mouth and screams - or at least she tries to. Maybe its futile. Maybe its too late.

Maybe she is already gone.

And then.

She is.

 

* * *

 

The first thing she realizes is that she is in the mud.

Emma is on her hands and knees again, fingers sopping wet and legs killing her.

“Mom!”

“Emma!”

“Swan!”

Several hands land on her back, her head, her shoulders, trying to pull her up, but her muscles are spent and she cannot help them, not at all.

“Did it work?” Henry’s voice falters for the first time in weeks.

Emma sees it all again. The memories the three had given her as they tried to free her from the Darkness. And the memories that Donnie had countered with. The warmth that filled her body and then, right before she passed out, how she hadn’t thought of hate or anger or fear. She had thought of sipping cocoa with Henry. Cooking dinner with her parents. Downing rum with Killian.

She had thought of  _goodness_.

“Yes,” she croaks out. “It worked.”

Hands and arms place her on a soft patch of grass and she tentatively opens her eyes to some very, very concerned gazes. “I’m fine, guys,” she manages, attempting a smile. “Donnie is gone.” They all grin and she closes her eyes again, dead tired, and she can’t manage to whisper the other thing missing.

Her magic.

The familiar and comforting hum is no longer there. Her body trembles a little, like a junkie going cold turkey, and when the pain of loss and the pain of the battle hit her bones, she blissfully passes out in an instant.

 

* * *

 

When she comes to again, she is on a soft, soft bed covered in a thick layer of blankets. She blinks and stirs and is stopped by a hand in her own.

“Emma?”

She opens her eyes and the sweet blue of Killian’s gaze makes a smile come to her lips involuntarily. “Hey there, sailor,” she whispers.

He grins. “Hello beautiful.”

A portal appeared after she passed out, Killian explains, Merlin’s magic to bring them back to Camelot. There, the wizard has taken the dagger, now containing the Darkness, and put it somewhere to be safely kept until he could destroy it. They’ve been letting her rest for a few days as she regains her strength. Camelot is recuperating. It will take a long time before they are as prosperous and able as they were in days of old, but as Merlin regains his strength, so too has the kingdom. But the wizard is spending much of his time tending to Arthur, whose mortal wound is proving difficult for Merlin to keep from killing him completely. He’s been put in some kind of magical coma until a solution can be found.

“He has asked Per— _my Father_  to be prepared for another quest.” Killian tries to play it off cool, but from the way his ears turn pink and his chest puffs out, she can tell how proud he is that his bedtime stories all turned out to be true.

Emma convinces Killian to crawl under the covers with her and she cuddles in closer than she has in weeks. Embracing him is much better when the only voice in her head sounds like her and it murmurs words that fall from her lips moments later.

"I love you."

"Oh, Emma." He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and brushes his lips against hers. "I do love hearing those words when neither of us are in mortal peril." She laughs and kisses him back, harder.

"If not for you and Dad and Henry,” she continues breathlessly, “I’d still be cursed."

His tongue is hot when it slides against her own and for the first time in weeks, the sensation sends a pleasant rush of heat throughout her body. "It was the right thing to do. You brought me back from the darkness when we met,” he whispers.

So they’re even. Or even enough. But Emma’s not really keeping score anymore. Instead, she’s struggling for breath as his lips trail across her jaw and down her throat and his body is so wonderfully warm and cozy pressed against hers under the covers.

They spend most of the afternoon sleeping and talking and kissing. Her energy is still too low to do anything more than simple caressing, even if the tightness in her gut is begging her to get a little frisky. As the sun starts its downward descent, Emma finds her head on Killian’s chest and his arm holding her tight.

“Killian?” He grunts in acknowledgement, the exhalation of breath mussing the hairs on the top of her head. “What was that poem your dad used to recite? The one you and Belle have been using for clues? I know Donnie never liked it but,” she squirms in closer, “I wanna know your bedtime story as a kid.”

She senses more than feels the way he smiles against her golden hair. Killian adjusts his grip on her, presses a kiss to her curls, and his voice falls into an easy cadence that lulls her to sleep.

 _“In Camelot King Arthur ruled with chivalry and light._  
_To be noble, brave, and true the call of every knight._  
 _One sought power and so he brought destruction unto all._  
 _On Camlan's field the bold knights fought and Camelot did fall._

_On Camelot rash Merlin cast enchantments o're the land_   
_Each man locked in time and space awaiting his command._   
_The mighty wizard did not see the wolf was at the door._   
_Now imprisoned he awaits the knights from a far shore._

_From Camelot fled Percival; seeking two to wield the Grail_   
_Three required for this grand Quest or Camelot will fail._   
_He scours the realms but with each year his hope slowly wanes._   
_Cursed and deathless he endures whilst Camelot remains._

_To Camelot three virtuous knights must haste to the crusade_   
_The path is dim but with pure faith a light shall be their aid._   
_From a cold scabbard hope will ring arming all who fight._   
_When Darkness gathers they shall stand wielding love in light._

_In Camelot brave Arthur lies upon a blood soaked field._  
 _Whilst Merlin waits in crystal cave for champions revealed._  
 _Endless Percival will seek for knights to bear the ring._  
 _For through the Grail they will revive the Once and Future King._ ”

And even though her Savior magic is gone, she can feel the Light in her bones when she drifts off in his arms.

 

* * *

 

Merlin comes to her room that evening and Killian excuses himself. Emma wonders if he’s as intimidated by the wizard as she is. Remnants of Donnie maybe. But after napping all day, Emma’s feeling restless, so she finds the strength to walk around the space, eat some food, and get a glimpse of Camelot out her balcony window. Emma thinks she detects a few wrinkles on his face that weren’t there in the cave, but his eyes are just as creepy and just as orange.

“You are no longer the Savior,” Merlin says after a moment, staring out the balcony window next to her. She shakes her head.

“You took on that mantle in part because of Isaac’s meddling and in part because of the need for someone to break the curse. Through your actions, you have been  _restored_ , as it were. Who you are now is who you would have been without those influences.”

“Ordinary.”

He clucks his tongue at that one, and this time he shakes his head. Emma finally chances a look at him. “No, Emma Swan, I have never seen a version of your future in which you were ordinary. And the affinity for magic may come more naturally for some, but it can be learnt by all. If you were willing to work hard and to study, I imagine you could regain the talent.” Those eyes twinkle a bit and it looks much less creepy without a voice in her head. “In fact, I find myself in need of a new Apprentice.”

Emma bites her lip and rests her elbows on the balcony railing, her chin in her hands and her imagination in the deep blue skies of Camelot.

“So what exactly would that entail?” 


End file.
